Page 92 of I'm Your Guy
Tommaso’s coffee maker is a high-end, pod-style machine, so it only takes me a couple of minutes to make two mugs of coffee.
It’s not nearly enough time to get my head together.
I can’t believe I woke up under my boss, his hard dick poking me in the hip. And me spreadeagled on his eight-hundred-thread-count, Egyptian-cotton sheets, like the little slut that I’ve become.
So much for acting like a professional, or even a decent friend. Tommaso had a scary, emotional night, and my big solution was taking him to bed.
I put a splash of milk in his coffee the way he likes and brace myself to go back up there. As I carry the mugs toward the stairs, I can’t help noticing how great the living room looks with the tree in the window.
But I should not be admiring it in the boxer shorts that I had to dig out from under the new club chair a few minutes ago.
When I enter the bedroom, Tommaso is leaning back against the headboard, a contemplative look on his face. He doesn’t look wrecked, so it can’t be terrible news.
“Is she okay?” I ask, handing over his mug.
“Yeah. They say she’s anemic. She needs iron and a little monitoring, so it’s not the dark omen I took it to be.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” I say, walking around to the far side of his giant bed. I shouldn’t get back in at all, but it’s December, and Tommaso keeps the thermostat turned down. And the rest of my clothes are still cast around his living room.
Tommaso takes a gulp of his coffee. Then he sets it down on the table and turns to examine me. “You okay?”
“Yup,” I say briskly.
He frowns. “Remember the promise I made you? About not regretting you?”
I flinch. “Yeah.”
“I regret nothing.”
Thank God. “That’s a relief.”
“So why do you look kinda anxious? Doesn’t that promise work both ways?”
I blow out a breath. “It ought to. Except I’ve been trying to work on my professionalism. Last night I failed.”
He rolls, eating up the distance that I’d carefully left between us, propping his big body up on his forearms and looking me right in the eyes. “You weren’t on duty, soldier. I think you’re in the clear.”
“Still. You were having a very emotional night. There were better ways to be your friend than stripping off all your clothes. I chose hedonism. It’s a theme with me. In my line of work, maybe it’s an occupational haz—”
I lose the rest of the word as his hand slides up my thigh. “Do I look like someone who thinks you made the wrong choice?”
“No,” I admit, and it comes out sounding breathy.
“When you told me I wasn’t allowed to regret you, I understood what you were saying. That you didn’t want to feel guilty about it later.”
“Exactly.” See? He does understand.
“You seem to have a few regrets, though.” He gives me a serious frown. “Does that mean I’m supposed to feel guilty about the best night ever?”
“No! God no.”
He tilts his head to the side, still gazing at me. “Then enough with the regrets, Montana. Capiche?”
“I…” At the top edge of the sheet, he strokes a thumb over my hip. “I don’t even know what that means.”
A flicker of a smile. “It’s Italian-American for got it.”
“Got it,” I repeat, setting my mug down on the side table.
