Page 3 of Carter
I scratch my chin. The idea sounds like a total cluster fuck, and if it was anyone else asking me, I’d have already turned around, got in my truck, and sped out of here. But I can see Makayla really needs my help, and as much as I hate her boss, I hate letting her down even more.
“I’d only deal with you?” I say. “Exclusively?’’
Her eyes flick across my arms. My hands.
I can tell she likes what she’s seeing.
The chemistry between us is intense. Making my cock throb and harden. Like it has a mind of its own and it can’t wait to escape and ransack the forbidden fortress of Makayla’s panties.
“Just me and you,” she says.
“Okay. But I’m warning you, if Graham starts giving me shit again, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
“Agreed.”
She puts out her hand. I take it in mine. Shaking it. Looking into her deep green eyes and fighting every cell in my body from pulling her to me and leaning down and kissing her.
“Agreed,” I say, letting go of her hand. Wondering what in the heck I’ve got myself into. And whether it’s going to be worth it, just to spend a few measly days with this big, buxom goddess.
For all I know, she might have a boyfriend. A husband.
There’s no way a woman this gorgeous is single.
And here I am rolling over on the ground like a good little lapdog. Letting her guide me around by my cock. All so her shithead boss can host a shit party for all his shithead friends.
“But this time,” she says, “please don’t drink out of his crystal glasses.”
A smile creeps onto my face. I knew I was going to cause some trouble when I picked that glass out of the cupboard earlier. But it looked so fucking fancy. I just wanted to sit out in the garden for a minute drinking an orange juice pretending like I was the kind of man that owned a huge mansion, instead of just worked at one.
“Okay,” I growl. “Anything you say, Makayla.’’
3
Makayla
Carter’s in the garden. Topless.
I bite my lip and imagine what it would be like to see the rest of him. Naked. Covered in sweat. His muscles rippling beneath his tanned, tattoo-covered skin.
“There you are!” Graham says, marching into the room.
Oh, shit.
“Is something wrong?’’ I ask.
“Is something wrong?” He swings his hands out like he’s talking in front of a huge audience. Looking around for imaginary people to back him up and tell him how right he is. How smart he is. How big and successful and powerful and cool. “Everything’s fucking wrong, Makayla. I just got off the phone with the caterers, and they’re pulling out. Apparently, the chef got in a road accident and is now a paraplegic. Like I give a shit.”
“Ok, it’s a minor setback. But I’m sure I can find a replacement.”
“This close to the event?” he scoffs. “I don’t think so. Unless you think my guests would like to eat Subway or MacDonalds.”
I try and think of a solution. Graham’s right. Any caterer worth a damn will be booked up months in advance.
“Give me a few hours and I’ll have a list of options for you. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“No.” Graham leans his bum against the kitchen counter and folds his arms across his chest. He looks me up and down like I’m a homeless person asking if he can spare some change. “I think it might be better if we part ways, Makayla. Things just aren’t working out.”
“What?” I can barely believe what I’m hearing. “I haven’t done anything wrong! It’s not my fault the caterers are pulling out. I’ll find a replacement. I promise!”
