Page 52 of Kiss and Tell
“Because it’s too much work?” I replied.
“Because it means you’re off-limits.”
My hand balled into a fist, crushing the papers I’d been holding.
“None of this would matter if you were a girl I’d met over drinks,” he said. “If you were that girl who ran into me and stained my shirt. If you were that girl who owed me a round.”
I stared at the crumpled paper.
“I’m still that girl,” I said.
“But that’s not all you are,” he said. “You’re someone I work with, and for you, that changes everything.”
It did. Or, at least, it had. But with Connor so close to me, and knowing how far away we were from everyone we knew, the temptation to give in was growing.
“There’s something between us, Quinn,” he said. “You know it, and I know it.”
My lips pressed together.
“I’m not denying there is,” I said.
“It’s been there since our first run in at the bar.” Connor put his hands on my shoulders. The heat of his fingers burned through my blouse. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“You said you knew the owner.”
“So?” he asked.
“I didn’t know how well you knew them. I didn’t want to do anything inappropriate.”
“And if I’d never said that?” he countered. “If you had no idea who I was? Would you have called me then?”
I lowered my head.
“Probably,” I whispered.
“Then forget the rest,” he said insistently. “Forget that I’ve hired your company and forget what people might think and forget that we’re working together. The only thing that matters is us and what we want.”
“And what exactly do you want?” I asked him, half-afraid of what I’d hear, but needing to know.
What was this to him? Was it a game, trying to get in my pants because he thought I was playing hard to get? Did he consider me a challenge, my protests an obstacle to overcome? Was this all to stroke his own ego, to prove to himself he could get any woman he wanted?
I closed my eyes, not wanting to believe any of those thoughts could be true, but also able to stop myself from thinking them.
“I’ve shown you what I want.” His hands tightened on my shoulders, thumbs caressing back and forth, massaging the nape of my neck. “I want you. I want you and this stuffy blouse you do up to the very top button. I want you and those ink stains on your fingers from taking notes. I want you and that wrinkle of your nose every time you walk into Walt’s dive bar.”
“I don’t wrinkle my nose.”
“Yes, you do.”
How many other small things had Connor noticed about me? How closely had he been watching me? I thought I’d been overly obsessed with him, his every breath, every raise of his eyebrow, every strand of his messy hair.
Maybe I wasn’t the only one paying too much attention when we should have been focused on the redesign.
“You have calluses on your fingers,” I said quietly. “I can feel them every time you touch me.”
Connor pushed my hair over one shoulder, gripping it in his fist like a ponytail, exposing the side of my neck. He cupped my face from behind, brushing a rough thumb along the underside of my jaw. That single point of contact was enough to send heat straight between my legs.
He brought his lips to my ear. I inhaled sharply.
