Page 48 of Inflame

“You’re sexy.”

13

NIC

I am shocked at my own self-control when it comes to Claire. I’ve never had to work hard for any woman in my life, but there is something about this particular girl that makes it worth it. I’m not a romantic guy by nature. Yet, Claire is making it easy to want to pay for things and take care of her. No matter how many times I tell myself she is off-limits or not the type of girl who can handle my level of intensity, I am drawn to her.

It’s her smart mouth and her quick wit that keep me laughing. It’s her tight ass and perfect twin rack that keeps my dick in a semi-hard state whenever I’m around her. She is the perfect combination of sassy, sweet, and smart.

“I’m ready to make some more bad choices tonight,” she says, making my thoughts halt.

I don’t know how to handle her words. She has been a walking sex ad since she came out of her bedroom today dressed like a temptress sent to destroy my self-control. There is only so much I can take, and right now she is pushing every single button I have.

“How so?” I ask for clarification. I know I’m staring at her. I can’t stop myself.

She points to the gourmet pretzel stand and the frozen lemonade picture. “I want that.”

I swallow at her innocence. Here she stands with the sexiest dress I’ve ever seen but is bouncing on her feet over the excitement of a soft pretzel. How can I even deny her anything when she looks this freaking cute? In this very moment in time, I want to give her the world, but also protect her from all the struggles the world inevitably offers.

“Pick out whatever options you want. My treat,” I tell her.

“Oh wow, so there are four vegan options. This is like the jackpot of all soft pretzel shops. I feel like I just won the lottery.”

And being a witness to her happiness, so do I.

Graham has loosely discussed with me the idea of adding some restaurants to Hoffman Headquarters to keep employees from having to leave the building when the weather gets rough—or simply to have an easy option for when days are busy. I didn’t have a strong opinion when he brought it up, but now I want to make sure that there are vegan and gluten-free options for those who have specific dietary needs. I told him to offer the space up to vendors to create pop-up shops on a weekly trial basis and see which few bring in the most revenue—offering leases to the highest profit makers. This will keep employees content but also show real data to the vendors.

Claire gets us the sampler to share and we decide to carry it outside to eat at the fountains directly bordering Caesar’s Palace. This entire trip has been so fun and my cheeks hurt from laughing, especially when I am around Claire. I am dreading the mood change that will surely happen when Maxwell shows up late tomorrow night. My information retrieving skills have made it easy to get his flight number, arrival time, and the amount of money he added to Claire’s debit card.

He is such a bastard to keep her under his thumb with the lure of an allowance. For someone who is raking in the money with day trading, he is finding a way to spread it out among multiple accounts to give the illusion that he is just mildly successful. How can she not see through this manipulation and dishonesty? Claire does not carry herself as being someone easily fooled. Maybe Ethan is just that charming, because someone as stunning as she is cannot be that desperate.

I would love to wrap up my hands and take a hit at him in the ring. Sparring is a way to release aggression that I accumulate if I don’t find another outlet to channel my anger. Messing up his pretty face a little would definitely help me release some endorphins.

The sound of the water fountains soothes my growing temper. Anytime I think about Claire with the bastard, I catch myself getting violently mad. For someone who used to pride himself on an even temper, my fluctuating moods lately have been volatile at best. I want to smash something. I want to scream. I want to grab this girl—who is moaning over a freaking soft pretzel—and see if those same mewling sounds will be produced if I lick her clit.

Even when Tara was at the forefront of my life, I never had this much emotional conflict when it came to the relationship. We were attracted to each other; she was pretty enough. I built a vision for our future over the idealistic notion that she would stay faithful to me before we said, “I do.”

At the time I wanted forever. I wanted the single-family home, the white picket fence, and the starter pet to test out our parenting skills. But Tara cheating on me broke something inside of me that will never be healed. In the process, all the things I thought I wanted were directly dependent on experiencing them with her. When Tara got out of the picture, so did all the other things I wanted for the future.

I no longer want forever. I don’t need more house to take care of, and I definitely do not want to procreate. I have gotten a taste of luxury and what power can buy. No amount of money will ever take away the responsibility of what a wife and kids bring. I am perfectly content avoiding that scenario for the rest of my life.

“You need to eat,” the pretzel-lover says, holding up a piece for me to bite.

I can tell she is still a bit tipsy because she misses my open mouth and presses the doughy treat into the side of my cheek. I turn my face, as she shoves the pretzel onto my tongue, almost causing me to choke.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly.

Her pout is so cute and innocent. It contradicts the sex appeal she has going on with her strappy heels and too short dress. It is strapless, and I could easily shove my hand or face into her cleavage. I have thought about it long enough. I spent all one hundred eighteen minutes of the show thinking about it. I should be crowned a saint for being able to sit next to her during the performance as she wiggled on her seat in excitement. The bounce of her a-little-more-than-a-handful tits kept me fighting between watching them strain against the fabric of her dress and watching some people twist their bodies on stage.

I’m not sure if Claire has a thing for feeding me, but she is enjoying herself.

“Try this one,” she yells with excitement, popping in a toasted almond bite before I even give her permission.

“It’s really good,” I say, making her smile.

She licks her fingers from where some of the crumbles stick to her skin. She washes it down with her frozen lemonade. We sit side by side on the edge of the pool while naked statues spout water from little openings.

“I’m so hot,” she says, fluffing her hair.

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