Page 19 of Heated
I stiffen and resist glancing in Jordan’s direction. Yes, he knows or heard a rumor that Val dumped me, but he obviously doesn’t know the details surrounding our breakup. If he did, there’s no way in hell he would’ve let that conversation go. And I’m not in the mood to enlighten him.
Maybe she—Zora, that’s her name—senses this because she turns to her sister and pops up a finger.
“One, none of your business. Two, unlike you, my motto is not ‘Sharing is caring.’ And three, please refer back to one.”
“Fine, fine.” Miriam holds up her hands, palms out, eyes comically wide. “No need to be so aggressive. If you want to be all cagey and squirrelly about your relationship, then cool by me.” She lowers a hand and props it on her hip. “But you know that’s only going to leave me to speculate, right?”
“Miriam, don’t you—”
“Hmm.” Her sister wheels around toward me, nose scrunched, bare-and-bitten-down nail tapping her full top lip. “Saving her from a long drop out of an office building is out, since I can’t see you wrinkling your suit even to strip out of it for a cape and tights underneath. So copycat Superman is out.”
“Good God.”
“She’s not wrong,” Jordan comments at the same time Zora tips her head back toward the sky on a whispered prayer.
Me? I’m caught somewhere between horror, annoyance, and a morbid amusement that has me frozen and curious about what crazy-as-fuck thing will emerge from her mouth.
“That leaves one-night stand that my loving but follow-all-the-rules big sister is too embarrassed to admit to. Which would explain why she appears so determined to keep her eyes above your neck because she has biblical knowledge of what you can do when that suit comes off and she’s imagining it riiiight now—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Zora interrupts, and if I’m correct, a faintly hysterical note threads through her voice. “Cyrus, can I speak with you for a moment? Privately?”
She’s marching off toward the other end of the parking lot before I can agree, so I follow, Jordan’s chuckle echoing in my ear. I don’t even break stride as I throw up my finger. Of course, he laughs harder. The man is impossible to offend.
As I trail behind her, I order my gaze to behave, to remain on the back of her head, the other parked cars, the ground ... anywhere but the gentle yet utterly sensual sway of her hips and the plump, dick-defyingcurves of her ass in her purple pencil skirt. Like the other clothes she’s worn every time we’ve encountered each other, there’s nothing overtly eye catching about the skirt, the white long-sleeved shirt with the ruffle down the front, or the black stiletto heels with the ankle straps.
But unlike those other times, I’m realizing now that I was completely, criminally wrong.
I can only blame the circumstances of our initial meeting and her sitting down most of the time at the restaurant, but I was a blind idiot.
Yeah, her clothes might still be off the rack and her shoes knockoffs, but there’s nothing boring about them. There’s no way in hell they could be anything but sexy and stunning when they’re wrapped around that wonder of a body.
Good God, she is that unveiled art piece that brings a man to his knees, his palms and fingers tingling with the desire to touch, to stroke ... to possess. Staring at that almost prim white shirt, that skirt that conceals as well as reveals, I strain at invisible restraints, hungry to strip away each piece of cloth that hides silken brown flesh, traces shadowed dips, protects secret, hot places ...
Fuck.
I wrench my gaze away from her ass, from those thick thighs that press against the seams of cloth with each long stride.
I’d been joking about taking a detour home and jerking one off to alleviate the pressure in my cock, my balls. But now ... yeah, maybe that’s not such a bad idea.
“I’m sorry about that,” Zora says, turning around and scanning the parking lot, as if ensuring no one is close by to overhear our conversation. “Miriam can be ...”
I do the same. I might not be as famous or well recognized as Jordan, but I have appeared several times on those blog sites dedicated to Denver society news and gossip simply because Val and I were dating. I haven’t gone searching to discover if our breakup has made the columns.
“A handful?” I supply since she paused.
Her ripe, just-a-shade-too-wide mouth twists. “Crazy as hell. But thank you for being much more diplomatic.” She sighs, her hands lifting between us and fluttering, and the gesture strikes me as vulnerable. And endearing in a way I don’t want to associate with her. “I assume your friend doesn’t know how we met?”
“No. And I prefer to keep it that way. Dammit.” I drag a hand through my hair, blowing out a breath. I hadn’t intended for my voice to come out so sharp. Why it’s sharp is another subject altogether. Especially when I just convinced Jordan—and myself—that I didn’t care about the relationship with Val ending. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. But yes, there are some details about my breakup I’d like to keep to myself. And explaining how we met means going into that.”
“I understand.” She nods. “And I’m sorry. Again.”
A faint smile touches her lips, and it draws my attention to her mouth once more. To the almost indecent fullness that incites thoughts of illicit acts and filthy groans. A mouth like that could take its fair share of abuse and beg for more, take more ...
I release a hard deliberate breath and slide my suddenly too-sensitive hands into the front pockets of my suit pants. To be on the safe side, I shift backward a step, inserting space between us. Because I don’t trust myself at this moment. Not when I’m envisioning those lips, swollen and damp from my lips and tongue, parting for my dick ...
What the hell iswrongwith me?
“Sorry for what?” I rasp. Clear my throat. But how do I get rid of the unexpected—and unwelcome—lust abrading me raw?
