The Mix-Up (Southern Hearts Club #3) - Melanie Munton Page 0,40
to rip out her weave and strangle her with it.
Damn professionalism. Damn this man for making me feel like a territorial shrew. Damn him for making me jealous, an emotion I truly detest. And damn him for making me care in the first place.
By the time the meeting concludes, I’m a fuming hot mess of boiling anger.
Mrs. Mercer leans back in to give Ryder a goodbye cheek kiss, her hand drifting down his arm in a wildly inappropriate move. “Call me when you have these new quotes ready, will you? Feel free to use my personal line.”
The old hag snorts condescendingly. When hell freezes over, you home-wrecking harpy.
Unconcerned if Ryder is following or not, I stomp out of that office, out of that building, and toward the taxi I immediately flag down on the street. Once he catches up, he gives the driver the address of the helipad where West is waiting to fly us back to Charleston. Thankfully, Ryder gets a phone call that he remains on for the entire drive, saving me from having to speak to him. Instead, I spend that time waging an inward battle that seems more and more insurmountable with each passing minute: locking up everything I feel toward this man—except maybe annoyance—and throwing away the key.
“Something wrong?” Ryder asks once we arrive at the helipad, having finished his call.
“Nope, just peachy.”
Hearing my arctic tone, he doesn’t say another word.
He helps me into the aircraft, quirking an eyebrow when I intentionally choose the seat closest to the privacy partition. This puts my back against the wall that separates us from the cockpit, which is Ryder’s usual spot.
I ignore the questions in his gaze and put on my headphones while he takes the seat opposite me, facing the cockpit. As West goes through all the pre-flight checks and tower clearances, our gazes never stray from each other.
Something entered this cabin with us.
Something dense. Something carnal.
Something I can’t shake. Like a bad habit. There’s no doubt in my mind that Ryder would be the worst kind of habit I could pick up. Worse than smoking. Worse than drinking. Because neither of those affect the most vital organ in the body like this man could: the heart.
His brows knit together in confusion. Then I see when he picks up on my energy. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and he’s waiting for me to make my move.
I don’t know if it’s my jealousy from watching Mrs. Mercer come onto him that’s driving my need for payback, or if it’s the memories of his kisses from Friday night that’s fueling my desire for more. Either explanation demands action.
Channeling my inner Sharon Stone, I slowly uncross my legs.
And spread them.
His furtive gaze dips to my thighs, his lids growing heavy with lust.
I watch in rapture as he mouths the word fuck.
Real Talk Romance, Episode 6
“My guests today are all male bartenders who work in the downtown Savannah area,” Kennedy starts off the show. “The subject of this session today, gents, is all about teasing. When is it appropriate, when is it not, and how do you feel about girls who are relentless teases?”
“As long as it’s considered foreplay and eventually leads somewhere, I like it.”
“But there’s a big difference between flirting and leading a guy on. Don’t let a man think that sex is on the table if it’s definitely not.”
“See, women don’t realize how difficult it is for us to walk around with a boner when we can’t do anything about it. There comes a point where teasing is cruel and blue balls become a medical emergency.”
“And women who constantly get off on inflicting that pain are just plain sadistic.”
“So, how long would you consider teasing appropriate before you expect her to put out?” Kennedy asks.
“Three to four hours, tops. Depending on where we’re at.”
“But if we’re just talking a handy or oral, probably two.”
“There you have it, for all you teases out there,” Kennedy interjects. “The moral of today’s lesson: work on your follow-through or don’t bother swinging at all.”
As I take the hem of my skirt between my thumb and index finger and slowly inch it up my thighs, Ryder’s eyes avidly track every movement. When the lace garters come into view, his forehead scrunches, his eyes momentarily squeezing shut. I’m utterly fascinated by the ferocity in his reaction. Reveling in it. His lips move as he appears to talk to himself. Like he’s giving himself permission to look again.