Page 30 of Big Boss
Okay, maybe not so tiny. But good God, the man can kiss.
He presses me closer to his thickly-muscled body, and my brain shuts off again, switching over to focus entirely on the feel of his tongue stroking against mine, the heat of his body pressed against mine.
Finally, we break apart and I remember that I need to breathe.
But we’re still so close that the warmth of his body and the smell of his cologne are making me feel like I might hit the ground.
I look up at him, dazed and dizzy. His lips curve up into a smile of masculine satisfaction, but his eyes flash with a combination of humor and heat that makes me yearn to kiss him again.
“Oh,” I finally say, my fingers rising to touch my swollen lips.
“Come on, sugar. We’ll find a place where you will be treated with the respect that you deserve.”
He wraps his arm around me and ushers me gently from the store. Behind me, I can see Carolyn getting dressed down aggressively by an older woman with a severe red lip and an asymmetrical haircut. I suppose I ought to feel bad for her, but let’s be honest: watching her get yelled at and possibly fired feels absolutely delicious.
I’d like to take a moment to get the last word in or possibly even applaud, but this experience is about as close to perfect as any moment has ever been in my life. If there were some sort of triumphant exit music playing, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised.
Instead, the only music playing is that extremely cringey song about a guy going down on a woman, over some heavy synthesized beats with some close harmonies. Gross. If this is what passed for popular music back in the day, then it’s no wonder I had a punk rock phase instead of a pop princess phase when I was growing up.
Tate still has me tucked close to his body as he reaches around me to push open the front doors. The exterior door attendants scramble to hold open the doors for us, and the valet looks up startled.
“Mine,” Donovan Tate growls, and for a brief moment, I feel like he’s talking about me instead of the car keys.
The valet lets out a squeak and tosses the keys to Tate, who catches them one-handed, because of course he does.
But I love it when he’s like this—oozing confidence and operating effortlessly within his element. But honestly, not that flash and show he does when he knows that people are looking.
This is the real Donovan Tate. He’s a force of nature and completely irresistible when he really turns on the charm. As much as I didn’t want him to come to my rescue, I can’t help but love the way he did it.
Effortlessly. Like it was no big deal to rescue me from that terrible, frozen feeling that locked me in place and left me staring at the floor with no words left on my tongue.
Tate opens the passenger door to his stupid car, which likely costs as much as a small country’s annual budget. The car is so fancy that I can’t even tell what company made it. It looks like a race car, and definitely drives like one too.
He waits until I’m settled in the deep bucket seat and then reaches across me to fasten the seatbelt. I sigh like he’s being annoying, but secretly I love the way he’s tending to me.
He wrestles the gown bag into the trunk and then climbs in beside me. He turns the key and the engine purrs to life. The vibrations spread through the seat, and I clench my thighs together as the sensation reverberates between my legs.
Tate turns to me and takes my left hand in his right one, then gives my hand a little squeeze. “Let me take you home.”
My mouth goes dry, and I nod. I can’t quite bring myself to answer him yet, but I lick my lips and then watch his eyes as he tracks the movement of my tongue. He doesn’t mean home to my place. I can tell by the difference in his voice.
The thrumming between my thighs intensifies. The emotions saturating the air in the car right now are intoxicating—leftover heat from that one intense kiss and the aftermath of the drama with Caroline, leaving me buzzing like I’ve been drinking all day long.
And watching Tate stare at my mouth is enough to set off another round of effervescence in my blood. I feel powerful because I have his attention. All of his attention.
He squeezes my hand again, then transfers our entwined fingers to the stick shift of his vehicle.
The car speeds into action, throwing me against the back of the seat and making my stomach rebel.
“You don’t have to drive that fast,” I choke out.
Tate laughs, his head tilted back. “I absolutely do. And you can’t convince me otherwise.”
I snort, but he gives my hand a little squeeze again and my insides go all warm and gooey and my brain empties out.
Because I’m holding hands with Donovan Tate. There’s nobody here watching or filming us in his car, but he’s still touching me anyway—his warm skin pressed against mine as he shifts the car from one gear to the next.
Is this what best friends do? Do they hold hands sometimes?
