Page 63 of American Beauty

Something dark flickers in his eyes. “The fun ones will be. And the ones, like me, who know how to take care of a woman.”

Fucking knew it! I should’ve become a nun.

I should get up. Walk away. Remind him this is a business relationship, not whatever dangerous game he’s turning it into. But my body won’t move, frozen in the space between common sense and the heat crawling over my skin. I need this job—desperately—but the air between us crackles with something dark, undeniable, and I hate how much a part of me aches for it.

I need to get control of this situation—fast. Before it goes too far.

Hell, it’s already gone too far.

His fingers flex against my skin, and his voice drops lower, rich with confidence. “I’m a man who enjoys giving a woman pleasure. And I’m very good at it.”

A sharp breath catches in my throat. Logic screams at me to get away, to remind him this is business. But my body betrays me, rooting me in place, frozen.

“Fuck, you smell good.” His eyes lock onto mine, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I bet you taste sweet.”

A shiver rolls down my spine.

His gaze drags over me like he’s already undressing me in his mind. “You can close your eyes and pretend I’m him.”

Him.

My stomach tightens. “Ty?—”

His eyes are locked on mine. “I don’t mind.”

My fingers curl into the bedspread beneath me. Every nerve stretched taut, the slow, traitorous thrum of arousal sparks low in my belly. I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want to want this. But it’s been so long since anyone touched me—and my body longs for pleasure even when my mind protests.

Ty’s body is like Alex’s, a rugby powerhouse—tall, broad, solid muscle. I wonder—if he pressed me into this mattress, would it feel the same? Would his weight settle over me the way Alex’s did, grounding me, making me forget everything but the way he felt, the way he moved?

The thought sends a jolt of something sharp through me.

No.

No one could ever feel like Alex.

But Alex isn’t in my life.

And he never will be again.

A sharp knock at the door shatters the tension, followed by a muffled voice. “Housekeeping.”

Ty lets out a quiet curse, the frustration rolling off him in waves. The intensity in his eyes flickers but only for a second.

I move, pushing to my feet, desperate for the space, for the air that feels too thick.

I straighten my clothes, willing my heartbeat to slow. When I glance back at Ty, he’s still sitting on the bed, jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists.

“I’ll get it.”

“Please do. Because I can’t go to the door like this.”

We both know what he means.

I crack the door open. “Hi. No service needed, thank you.”

The woman gives a polite nod and wheels her cart down the hall, oblivious that her new boss is in this room with a raging erection.

I close the door and exhale.

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