Page 482 of Not Over You

Glass shatters and I whip around, ready to tear into the idiot, only to stop speechless.

“Oh shit,” Bambi says, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Grumpy Pants. I wanted more and you were busy. The bottle just up and flew out of my hand on its own. I swear I had a good grip on it—you know how tight my grip can be—but then in a flash it was on the ground, shattering into a million pieces. Fuck a duck, I really liked that añejo, too.” She scowls at the mess on the floor and then a giggle slips out. The sound is akin to tinkling bells, setting off a primal instinct within me.

Claim. Punish. Please.

“It’s okay Señorita, accidents happen all the time,” Manny says, walking past me to help her.

I shoot out my arm and stop him. “It’s fine, I’ll get this cleaned up. Can you take the rest of the tour upstairs and finish it? We’ll be up in a few when we’re done.”

“Sí, sí.” He nods and gestures for everyone else. “Come on, let’s head up for a sunset like you’ve never seen before.”

“Oh, I want to take more photos of the sunset. Can we do that first and then clean up?” Bambi asks.

“No. This won’t take long.”

Her shoulders drop and she pushes her bottom lip out. I swallow down a groan; God, why are her pouty lips so damn fuckable? My cock jumps, pressing against the zipper of my jeans like it’s trying to find its home in her warm mouth again. Not happening. I pull my attention away from her and subtly adjust myself as the horde follows Manny up the stairs and out of the cellar, closing the door behind them.

When I’ve got my temper and lust under control, I turn and face the doe … who is downing the last two shots of tequila and mumbling to herself. “He’s not the one for us, stop being a hussy. Mr. Grumpy Pants might have the king of all cocks, but he’s bossy and arrogant, not our type.”

Her head is pitched downward and it doesn’t take much to connect the dots. She’s scolding her pussy. I nearly chuckle, but I don’t want her to know I heard her little tirade … yet.

I grab the broom from the utility closet, as well as the mop, and bring them back into the tasting room, freezing when I find a very naughty doe on her hands and knees with her ass towards me. My fist tightens around the broom handle, the wood creaking beneath the force.

“What are you doing?” I grit out through clenched teeth.

Bambi yelps and sits back on her heels, clutching her camera to her chest. “Sheesh, you gave me a fright,” she says, panting. “I’m taking pictures of the broken tequila bottle and capturing its magnificence. Come see.” She beckons me forward. “It broke beautifully, leaving perfectly imperfect shards of glass on the floor and gleaming amber liquid pooling around them. Broken doesn’t always mean unsightly, some things look better as a shattered mess, and this is one of them.”

I’m blown away. Truly. I’m thirty-eight years old and I’ve never once equated beauty with mess, but she’s right. There’s something evocative about the chaotic display on the stone floor. It’s reminiscent of how beautifully humans break when pushed past their limits—and fuck if I don’t know that well. It’s one of my favorite activities both in pain and pleasure.

“I’ll do it,” I grumble when she stands and attempts to take the broom from my hand.

“I made the mess, I can clean it up.” Her chin lifts in challenge.

“It’s fine. I’ll clean it up. It’s my job.” I choke out the last few words as it was never meant to be my job. Not in my mind. No matter what my father expected from me.

Shockingly, she doesn’t snark back, just nods and heads out of the tasting room. I make quick work of cleaning up the mess of shot glasses and putting them into the sink on the far wall, before wrapping up the unused aloe vera leaves and stashing them on the counter. I take my time sweeping up the glass and mopping up the alcohol. The quickest way for a business to get sued is by a slip and fall. Fuck that. When I’m finished, I put the supplies back in the closet and hunt down the doe so we can leave.

I come around the first row of barrels and spot her on her hands and knees again. A colorful slew of curses slip past my lips and I have to adjust myself again. The universe really is conspiring against me. That is the only viable answer when the mesh wrap slips off her hips as she crawls forward. The bikini bottoms she’s wearing—and I use that term loosely as there isn’t much fabric for her to wear—are riding high on her hips and provide almost no cover over the globes of her ass. She might as well be wearing a thong. Jealousy and anger burn through me at a startling rate as the thought of other men seeing her like this today enters my mind. What the fuck?

My fingers itch to slap each cheek until they’re the perfect shade of deep red and there’s a permanent hand-mark left behind. Another reminder of who owns her flesh and filthy sins. Shit. What sort of temptress is this girl? How has she taken over my core thoughts and changed them into something more pliable than ever before?

“Mr. Grumpy Pants, are you checking out my ass?” she asks, waving said ass in the air like a red scarf in front of a bull.

“Yes. I’m checking out your luscious ass, and if you don’t stop swaying your hips, I’m going to stuff it full of my cock until you’re a writhing, screaming mess, begging for your release like the naughty girl you are.” I prowl towards her.

“Your tone promises punishment, but your words sing of pleasure,” she purrs, straightening her legs and pressing up on her toes so she’s bent in half, looking at me upside down through the space between her legs.

“You’re playing a dangerous game that you don’t know the rules for. I will ruin you.”

“I don’t disagree, but fuck it would be fun.” She giggles, standing upright and brushing a kiss along my jaw before edging past me.

I snatch her arm and bring her back to my front, banding my arm around her middle and letting her feel how hard I am for her. She presses her hips back and grinds them against me. We groan in unison.

“I know, I know. I need permission to touch you. I’m sorry. I’ll do better,” she says breathily.

“Yes, you will.”

It takes every drop of my fading willpower I have to release her. The demand to ravage her body is all-consuming and I want to drown in it, but instead, I remind myself for the goddamn hundredth time that she isn’t mine, hasn’t been vetted, nor signed a contract.

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