no.
This can’t be the same man. My competitor can’t be my secret lover. Or rather, one of my secret lovers.
Shake it off, Sage.
Focus on the now.
Let go of your fantasies.
I stride across the plush carpet in my high-heeled shoes, fixing my focus on everything real around me.
The desk.
My office.
The place where I make decisions.
Where I run this luxury hotel and all the other ones around the country and the world too. This is not the room to indulge in fantasies. Nor is it the moment to linger on sensual memories.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Donovan. I’m so glad you could come to my hotel.”
His lips twitch almost imperceptibly.
Like he wants me to see a little hint of something in them. Saying he knows me. He has a secret. And he relishes that secret.
I swallow roughly. My skin warms as he stares at me and I take his hand.
No. “Warms” is wrong. More like sizzles from this man’s touch as he wraps his fingers around mine, almost like he’s reminding me what he can do with those fingers.
And I know.
I know that hand.
Intimately.
I do my best to remain cool, but it’s hard. So hard when he whispers in a seductive voice, “I assure you, Ms. Carmichael, the pleasure is all mine.” He takes a beat and levels me with another intense gaze, his eyes shimmering with desire. “Emphasis on pleasure.”
So. Much. Emphasis.
My breath hitches, my body hums, and my libido throws a ticker-tape parade. The traitorous bitch.
This man.
For a few delirious seconds, I’m lust-struck. I don’t want to let go of his hand. I don’t want to do the right thing. I want to do the bad thing. The dirty thing. I want to tug him against me and revel in the press of his body. I want to taste those lips again.
I want to let him unclip my hair, jerk my neck back, and blaze a trail of hot, filthy kisses along the column of my throat. And then tell him to do it again. What he did the other night. I want to let him slide his hand between my legs and get me all the way off.
Or better yet, ask him to bend me over my desk and show me what he can do when he hikes up my dress.
Ask him to fuck me hard, fuck me dirty, fuck me with his friend watching.
These thoughts.
These out-of-nowhere thoughts.
But are they truly out of nowhere? Or has he awakened a part of me that was sleeping peacefully for far too long?
A part of me that’s peeking around corners of my desire, peering down halls of my lust, whispering, Do it again, do it again.
Somehow, I find the will to put on my best professional voice. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
He says nothing. Just does that thing again with his lips. That little twitch. That hint of mischief.
“You’re delighted to make my acquaintance?” And then, like he’s savoring the next word, he breathes out, “You mean . . . again? You mean delighted to make my acquaintance . . . again.”
I could grab his tie. I could yank him against me and say, Yes, you cocky bastard, I am fucking delighted and let’s find out how much. Because this is not simple delight; it is wicked, filthy desire. Instead, keeping a very stoic expression, I say, “And is that how I look?”
I try to be tough, but it’s hard to maintain the facade when his eyes eat me up. They devour me. They undress me.
With his hand still clasping mine, he rumbles, “Yes, that’s how you look. Do you want to know why I say that?”
I take the bait, lust leading me on. “Why do you say that, Mr. Donovan?”
He lets go of my palm, raises his hand, and slides his finger down my collarbone to the neckline of my dress. His touch sets my body on fire, turns my veins to liquid gold. “Because you look the way I feel.”
He says it all whispery, growly, and holy fucking shit.
His words.
His body.
The way he stares at me like he owns my pleasure.
Like he knows my pleasure.
Like he wants to pour it in a glass, drink it down, consume it.
The hair on my arms stands on end. His wicked words send tingles through me, around me, wrapping me up in them like someone has sprinkled me with erotic pixie dust, and it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.
“And how do you feel?” I ask, unable to