Page 57 of Treat

“Well, you don’t sign my paychecks or administer my health insurance, so technically, no. I think I’m assigned to you? Technically. So it’s more like you’re my supervisor.”

“Still a boss.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t care.”

Hope bloomed in her chest. “You don’t?”

His eyes were hooded, his nostrils flaring with every breath. It should not have been hot, but it was. It really was. “I really don’t,” he said. “If it was just sex…but it’s not.”

Oh, God. She swallowed. “It’s not?”

He shook his head, his eyes still pinning hers like sexy little blue lasers that could see right through her.

“Um.” She was going to tell him something. What was it? Oh, right. “You should probably know. The kiss-cam thing made the television broadcast.”

“Oh.” He paused for a second, then shook his head. “I still don’t care.”

Oh god, oh god, oh god. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not sure of a damn thing,” he said, “except one.”

Her breath didn’t seem to want to move out of her chest. “What’s that?”

“I want you more than I want to win the Stanley Cup.”

Her breath whooshed out. “Wow. That’s a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well.” She shifted her feet, rubbing her thighs together. “I’ve never wanted to win a Stanley Cup, but I want you more than I want to see the Tigers win the World Series.”

His mustache twitched. “That’ll do.”

“Okay,” she said and started to leap into his arms before she remembered. “Wait!”

He froze, arms outstretched. “What?”

She looked around, frantic, until she saw the bottle of hand sanitizer sitting on the counter. She dashed over, shot three quick pumps into her palm, and hurried back, briskly rubbing her hands together. “Tilly pooped. I had to pick it up.”

He stared. “Barehanded?”

She laughed, so damn happy she felt like she could just float right up to the ceiling. “No, with the bag, but you know. Just in case.”

“Got it. Can I touch you now?”

“God, yes.”

The words were barely out when he grabbed her, snatching her up and jerking her against him so hard she would’ve bounced right back off if he wasn’t holding her so tightly. Sensations came at her like fastballs, one after the other—thefirmness of his chest and thighs, the dig of his fingers into the soft skin of her waist, the scent of salt and sweat on his skin. And the glorious, thrilling press of his erection against her belly.

Instinct had her legs parting and rising, hooking over his hips to anchor herself, and when she settled into place right over that jut of flesh her happy purr mixed with a guttural groan that sounded like it had been ripped from his very soul.

“Fuck,” he ground out, lust making his blue eyes glitter, and his hands shifted from her waist to her ass. They dug in, flirting with the line between pleasure and pain, and spurred by the heat and the want and the need, she kissed him.

She banged him in the forehead with the brim of her hat, knocking it to the floor, but she barely noticed. There was no foreplay this time, no subtle nibbles or teasing strokes. Desire was a desperate, greedy thing, clawing at her like a wild animal, and she gave into it without hesitation or shame. She kissed him until she couldn’t breathe, then with her head light from lack of air, broke free to attack his ear.

“Jesus, Brynn,” he rasped.

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