Page 38 of Fiona and the Fixer

She shook her head.

I grinned. “You love my meat.”

Her mouth fell open and I wanted those lips wrapped around my dick. Right now. All this arguing made me hard.

“I can’t believe you said that.”

I shrugged, went for the button on my jeans. “It’s the truth.”

She didn’t deny it and her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. Her gaze followed my hand. “What are you doing?”

“Round two.”

She wasn’t saying no. She wasn’t shooting me. I took that as consent.

I slid my hand into my loosened jeans, gripped my dick, which was really fucking hard. “You hungry?”

She eyed me up and down, just as Dottie had, but I really liked the interested gleam in her eye. Her gaze also stopped at my hand tucked into my pants. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Like that gun you carry?” she asked, circling back to probing into my life.

“You want to fuck, I’m right here. No Scotts. I’m your fake boyfriend now.”

Dropping the fork, she came around the counter to me. She wanted me more than homemade burritos. That said a lot. Or she was going to kick me in the nuts.

“You know this is fucked up.” She pointed to herself, then to me, her gaze focused squarely on my hand and how I was working myself from root to tip. A bead of pre-cum beaded at the top and I used my thumb to smear it into my skin.

I nodded. “I do.”

She licked her lower lip.

Fuck. More pre-cum.

“I’m not looking for a relationship or a boyfriend, even though the entire town will think that by morning.”

I nodded. “Good. Fake boyfriend works for me. I’m not looking for anything real either,” I countered. I just knew I wanted more with Fiona. More sex. More riling her up. More… just more.

She took a step toward me. “You know I have questions. Like where you’re from. Why you’re here, because you’re the worst bookstore employee ever. How–”

“Sweetheart, I’ve got my hand on my dick that you rode so well earlier and your mind’s all over the place.”

She frowned. “It is not.”

“Your mind’s got more tabs open than a computer.”

She looked steamed, especially when she set her hands on her hips. “May I remind you that you broke intomyplace?”

“You’re still talking. Get on your knees and I’ll give you something to quiet that mouth and that brain of yours.”

That glare. Fuck, it was hot. Based on the way she gave as good as she got, she wasn’t used to someone arguing with her. Neither was I.

She was wet. She had to be. She was into this… hate fucking as much as me.

She could say no. Could sit right back down and eat a veggie burrito. She didn’t do either.

She was wound tight and seemed to need to be in control of everything. It made sense as an FBI agent. It also made sense if she had a surprise brain tumor.

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