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It’s now Tuesday evening, the first week of February, and I’m still at work.
I’m exhausted, but I shake it off and text Harv to let him know I have a client dinner and I’ll be home later. It adds to the guiltiness I already feel from my time in LA.
I then call an Italian restaurant to have the food delivered here. Must be nice to be Damon Dreygon—they don’t typically deliver.
A woman, Abby Whitmore, is coming soon with her assistant, whom I assume is a young guy, based on our earlier phone call to get their food order.
I’m placing the plates on the table in the boardroom when Damon comes in.
“It’s all ready?” Dark eyes flicker to his watch before his attention lands on me.
I nod, admiring the fit of his shoulders in his black suit, until I notice him placing a wine bottle at the edge of the table.
“Trying to bed an important client?” I hold his gaze, knowing I’m overstepping.
He grabs the bottle and takes a step toward me, then another. The chilled wine bottle touches my fingers, and I grab it, letting the shivers disperse all over.
“I’m trying to get in bed with her father, the CEO.”
I know this. I keep up with his files; it makes drafting my part of the reports a significantly easier task. I also know that winning over Mr. Whitmore as a client for one of his multi-million-dollar businesses most likely means agentlerreport.
“So then why am I here?”
His look sends a tingling sensation right to my sex.
“So she behaves. I told her my assistant would be there. Hence why hers will be there too, merely to ensure she doesn’t stroke my cock.”
A strange ferocity blinds me. It’s all I can see. The fury that washes through me is so strong I know I don’t have control over my facial features when Damon smirks a tiny bit.
The thought of any woman touching him—fucking him.
God, no.
I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
I want it to be me.
I can’t say or do anything. Not right now. I can’t trust what will come out. Instead, I watch him grab the wine bottle from me and pour four glasses.
“I can’t drink. I’m driving,” I say when he’s done and my feet are touching earth again.
He shakes his head. “I’ll drive you back. It’ll be late by the time it’s done.”
“Damon I can drive back home—I’m not a little girl.”
He gives my body the attention it craves as his eyes catch my black dress. Then my lips to my collarbone, down to my chest. When his gaze reaches my legs, I’m ready to wrap them around his torso.
“I know,” he whispers. “Why are you jealous when you’re the one who’s taken?” He moves in closer, so close I could bottle his dreamy, tasty cologne.
Moments with Damon feel like natural disasters. It’s beautiful yet terrifying and rare, so rare. To feel like this. To come across so many people in your lifetime but to only feel these sparks with very few.
It could be lust. It could be more.
I’m so lost, I don’t know right from wrong. Left from right. I’m moving in closer.
“I’m not jealous—”
“Lies,” he interrupts. “So many lies, Red.” His fingers are skirting my jawline, and goosebumps hoist every hair on my body.
