Page 12 of Dirty Dillon

Since I can’t solve that mystery yet either, I get the coffee going because I know I can at least manage that. Dillon will be so surprised to get to work and already have the coffee ready just the way he likes it.

Once that’s percolating, I straighten out the desk as best I can, but it’s the beast he calls a phone that I really want to tackle today. I try to familiarize myself with the buttons and settings. I’m one hundred percent certain that I’m going to be hanging up on even more people today than yesterday. I’m also sure this phone is from 1992.

My gaze wanders to the couch, and the sound of Dillon’s palm cracking on my ass echoes in my brain. The memory sends heat flooding between my legs, and I squeeze them together, trying to ignore the growing ache.

This is so not me.

Dillon strides into the room, his heavy boots thumping against the floor. I look up at him through my lashes, my cheeks flushing. Can he tell what I was just thinking about?

He stops, taking in the office and my expression. He frowns like nothing makes sense to him either.

“Hi.”

“The place looks great,” he says, glancing at the organized desk. His praise sends a thrill through me, and I have to fight back a smile. Why do I crave his approval so much? “You already made coffee?” He steps closer, his presence making me feel both small and safe all at once.

Dillon studies me for a moment, his eyes searching mine as if trying to find an answer to a question he’s too afraid to ask. Finally, he says, “Thank you for helping me in here. I know you’re not used to doing office work, but neither am I. I really appreciate your time.”

Pride swells within me, warm and heady like the finest margarita buzz. No one has ever made me feel this way before, not even my own father. Is it strange that Dillon’s words mean more to me than any compliment I’ve received in my entire life?

I mean, it’s no secret that the help I’m offering isn’t exactly quality organization. He’s praising myeffort. Why is that so hot?

“Thank you,” I whisper, my cheeks burning.

This is weird. I need to finish up this week and get out of this garage. I’m feeling soft and gooey over a guy that looks like a biker dude and thinks I’m his to dominate. None of those things go together.

Of course, Iagreedthat I was his to dominate yesterday. But a girl can’t be held responsible for what she says after an orgasm like that. If I keep my nose to the grindstone and not do anything to agitate the man, we should be able to get through this week without any more sexy situations. A shame, but necessary.

“You okay?” Dillon’s hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb gently stroking my skin.

The office door opens with a squeak and we break apart.

“Well, this is cozy,” the man says, extending his hand. “I’m William Duke. Dillon’s brother.”

Well, hot genes run in the Duke family I guess.

“I’m Cressida, the temp for a week,” I say, shaking his hand. His grip is firm but friendly.

“Cress is helping me get the office under control,” Dillon says.

“I see,” William replies, his lips widening into something less of a smile and more of a taunt toward Dillon.

“Can I get you some coffee, William?”

He is about to say yes, but Dillon says, “No,” sharply.

William makes a face at him that says in perfect brother speak, “WTF crawled up your ass?”

“You’ve quite a job ahead of you, Cressida. Dillon isn’t the nicest of the Duke brothers. Maybe when you finish out your week here, you can come be my assistant instead. I’m much more easy going.” He winks at me, and I feel my cheeks flush under his gaze.

“Alright, enough of that,” Dillon interjects, his jaw tensing.

Jealous much? I can practically taste the testosterone in the air, and it’s a little bit delicious. First Dillon wanted to keep the coffee I made all to himself. Now he doesn’t want me to work for anyone but him.

“Also, William is not easygoing,” Dillon tells me. “He’s a total control freak. And a neat freak. Just a freak in general.”

William chuckles, raising his hands in surrender. “Not trying to poach your employee.” To me, he says, “Maybe we can just grab a drink sometime instead.”

“I mean it fuckface,” Dillon growls.

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