Page 57 of Wait for Him

“I will kick you in the dick,” she says sweetly as she rises from the chair, “and render you medically useless for your happy wife and any future cat calls.”

“Booty calls. They're called booty calls, you absolute boomer.” I shake my head at her. “The fact that you don't know the term and still judge me for it is honestly the most you thing about you.”

Her eyes narrow.

Oh, shit.

She's already rounding the desk, quick and fully committed to making good on the threat. I move on instinct, catching both her wrists in one hand before she can land anything I'll regret. My other arm goes around her waist and lifts, and before either of us has thought it through, I've set her ass on the edge of my desk between my hands.

“Workplace violence,” I tell her, “is grounds for an HR complaint. I'd hate to have to write you up.”

Then I stop talking.

Because we're too close. Way too fucking close.

Her face is inches from mine, close enough that I can see the tiny shift in her expression when she realizes it too. Somewhere in the maneuver, her knees came apart, and I stepped between them without thinking, which leaves my thighs pressed against the inside of hers, and her wrists still caught loosely in my hand.

The joke dies.

Neither of us moves.

Fuck.

This is why I don't play with her like this.

This is why I keep desks and tables and entire fucking conference rooms between us whenever I can. Because the years leading up to today haven't done shit to this.

I've slept with other women. Married one, technically. Built a company, made more money than I know what to do with, crossed into my thirties and developed at least enough self-control to pass for a functioning adult.

And Rose gets between my hands and none of it fucking matters.

My eyes drop to her mouth.

Bad idea.

I bring them back up.

Worse idea.

She's looking at mine.

“That fleshlight pressing into my thigh isn’t an HR violation?” she whispers.

“Fleshli—” My eyes go wide. “Fuck.” I let go of her embarrassingly fast and turn on my heel, putting my back to her and a desk's worth of professional distance between us.

“Sorry.”

Jesus Jackson, get a fucking grip on your genitals.

I scrub a hand down my face and stare at the bookshelf like it's going to bail me out.

Fleshlight.

Of all the words available to the English language.

Behind me, I hear her slide off the desk, followed by the soft scuff of her heels finding the floor.

“Relax, Jackson.” Her voice has gone easy again by the time I turn around. “It's a compliment. Most women would kill for that kind of immediate feedback.”