Page 4 of Daddy's Naughty Realtor

His mouth.

God, the man could work his mouth. I close my eyes as I slide under the covers and remember exactly what his mouth did to me the last time we were together. My breath hitches at the memory. My hand goes between my legs and I rub my clit as I think about Jeremy. I can still feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, sending shivers down my spine as he flicked my clit with his tongue, igniting a fire within me that I nearly forgot exists.

I roll over, seeking a position to ease the tension building within me, but all I find is a growing ache for something just out of reach. My mind replays every tantalizing moment—the way his hands gripped my thighs, pulling me closer to him, urging me to abandon all inhibitions. I bite my lip, trying to stifle a moan as I rub my clit faster, recalling how he savored my body like it was a fine wine, slow and deliberate, relishing in every reaction.

With every touch, he brought me closer to that precipice, stretching time until I was nearly gasping for release. And just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, he pushed me over the edge with a wave of pleasure that crashed through me with such intensity I feared I'd never come down. I bring myself to an orgasm as the memory flickers like an old film reel in my mind; frames of desire tangled with bitterness. Tomorrow I’ll forget about running into Jeremy. Tomorrow, I’ll forget the feelings he stirs inside of me.

Liar, my brain whispers.You're not forgetting anything.

CHAPTER3

Three days after the Blackwell estate incident, I'm showing a penthouse downtown when my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number: Your legs look amazing in that dress, kitten.

I freeze in the middle of explaining the smart home system to my client, a tech entrepreneur who's barely looked up from his own phone since we arrived. I glance around the empty penthouse, half-expecting to see Jeremy lurking in a corner.

"Everything okay?" my client asks, finally noticing I've stopped mid-sentence.

"Fine," I say, pasting on my professional smile. "Just a work message."

As soon as he returns his attention to the kitchen's touchless faucets, I type back:

Who is this?

The response is immediate:

You know exactly who this is.

I do. Of course I do. But damned if I'll give him the satisfaction.

Me: You’ve got the wrong number.

I shoot off my message, then tuck my phone away, ignoring the immediate buzz of his reply.

I finish the showing on autopilot, somehow managing to extol the virtues of smart refrigerators and voice-activated lights, while my mind races with questions.

How did he get my number? How does he know what I'm wearing?

As my client heads to the elevator, I glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows and see him.

Jeremy is sitting in the coffee shop across the street, looking directly up at the penthouse. Even from this distance, I can see that infuriating half-smile. I don’t think he’s stalking me, he’s not the type. I wonder at the coincidence. Of all the coffee shops in town, how did he end up at the one across from the high end penthouse I’m showing?

He raises his coffee cup in a mock toast when he sees me noticing him.

The absolute nerve.

I whip out my phone and type:

Are you STALKING me now?

Jeremy: Just enjoying the view, kitten. Nice building. Your client doesn't deserve it though—he didn't look at you once the entire showing.

A chill runs down my spine. He's been watching me. For how long?

Me: This is inappropriate and unprofessional.

I ignore the flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with indignation. After all this time, he can still make my heart race.Remember how he treated you. Remember how you felt when he left. He doesn’t deserve a second chance.My mind is logical. My heart, and my clit, beat to an entirely different drum. I’m too old to be thinking this way. I can bring myself to an orgasm faster than any man can.Stop it. Stop thinking about how much Jeremy turns you on.

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