Page 49 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Ignored by men for those
Young girls of perky breast and thigh
And coy, long-lashed flirtations.
But such pleasures—such delights!—are nigh
For men desiring new sensations,
For we mature ladies (still full of life)
Are seasoned by our complications.
We bring to love a certain spice
Unknown to less experienced maidens.
So look not, you men, to the young for their easy charms,
But satisfy your deeper yearnings in an older woman’s arms.
In the wake of my recitation of “Ode to Old Chicks,” Michael’s face goes through a series of remarkable transformations. I don’t know how many emotions cross his face, but the final one it settles on is indecipherable and, therefore, terrifying.
“What a fascinating sonnet,” he says, his voice tight, his eyes blazing blue fire. “And how interesting you chose that particular one to share with me.”
My stomach drops. I’ve made a colossal, unintentional, but nonetheless unforgivable error.
My boss thinks I’ve just propositioned him. I’m going to be fired for sexual harassment.
My career is over. I might as well go visit the animal shelter now and adopt the rest of my cats.
My hand over my mouth and my eyes saucer wide, I breathe out in horror. “It—no—that’s the most recent one I wrote. I didn’t mean anything by it . . .”
Michael’s blistering gaze drops to my mouth. He murmurs, “No? Pity.” He reaches out and brushes his knuckle over the slope of my cheek.
The earth stops spinning on its axis. I become aware of all the cells in my body, of every singing nerve, my ragged breathing, the tremor skittering over my skin. We stand there and stare at each other as a powerful magnetism wipes my mind blank.
My mind is frozen, but my body is all sensation, all pounding heartbeat and flying pulse, the faint press of his knuckle on my skin the center of my universe.
His lips part. He leans closer.
Holy shit. He’s going to kiss me.
“Mr. Maddox, I need to speak—”
Portia barges into the kitchen, heels clicking, a file under her arm. She sees us and skids to a stop.
Michael spins away and resumes fixing himself a cup of coffee as if nothing has happened, while I stand rooted to the spot, mortified and strangely guilty, unable to speak or move.
Ice forms in long, crackling fingers on the floor and wall around the spot where Portia stands. She stares at me, her gaze hard, her posture rigid, her expression accusatory, then she turns her icy glare to Michael’s back. “Excuse me, sir,” she says stiffly. “Your secretary told me you were in here. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Michael turns around with a mug in his hand, a casual smile on his handsome face. “You weren’t interrupting. Joellen and I were just discussing her application. She’s very eager to get the job.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. If people could spontaneously combust, Portia would be splattered all over the walls and floor right now in little frozen pieces.
She cuts her freezing gaze to me. Her lips thin and her nostrils flare, and I’m afraid she might physically attack me.
“I see,” she says softly, burning holes into my head with her eyes.
