Page 38 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

But then she looks up at me through her lashes—warm, amused, just a little unguarded—and I forget every reason why I shouldn't.

The song shifts, something slower now, and before I can think better of it, I let my hand slide lower, settling at the curve of her waist. She doesn’t stop me.

In fact, she exhales—just a small, breathy sound. But it’s enough. Enough to make restraint snap like an over-tightened thread.

I shift forward, dipping my head slightly, giving her time to pull away. She doesn’t.

And that’s all the permission I need.

I kiss her.

She makes a soft sound of surprise, then melts into me, her lips parting. She tastes like mint and something sweeter, and suddenly every ounce of restraint I’ve built since first laying eyes on Ariana Bristol crumbles into dust.

I angle her back slightly, deepening the kiss, savoring the warmth of her mouth, the way she sighs against me like she’s been waiting for this just as much as I have. Her hands slide up my chest, fisting in my shirt, and it’s like a switch flips.

I’m no longer thinking about professional boundaries, about strategies, about the goddamn IPO.

I’m thinking about how good she feels pressed against me. How her scent—vanilla and something even sweeter—clouds my thoughts. How the soft whimper she makes when I brush my thumb over her hip shoots straight to places that have no business reacting right now.

She presses closer, like she can’t get enough, like she doesn’t care that this is reckless and impulsive and a very, very bad idea. My hands skim the curve of her waist, pulling her flush, and she shudders.

I nearly shudder myself.

Fuck.

I don’t do this. I don’t lose control. Not of myself. But with Ariana, I’m unraveling by the second.

Her nails scrape the back of my neck, sending a sharp jolt ofheat straight to my spine. I tilt her head back, deepening the kiss, swallowing the soft sound she makes. It’s intoxicating—the way she responds, the way she presses up on her toes like she wants more.

I want more.

Then my phone buzzes, the harsh sound shattering the moment.

Ariana gasps, jerking back like she’s just remembered where we are—who we are. Her pupils are blown, lips kiss-swollen, and my heart pounds like I just finished running stadium stairs.

“I should—” She stumbles slightly. “That was?—”

"Ariana—"

"Professional.” She's already backing away, fingers brushing her kiss-bruised lips. "We're being professional. This is just business. Just... strategy."

"Right." But my voice is rough, betraying just how not professional that kiss was.

"I'll see you tomorrow." She grabs her purse, avoiding my gaze. "For work. Professional work. With appropriate boundaries and—oh god, is that a feather in your hair?"

Before I can answer, she's gone, leaving nothing but the ghost of vanilla and the taste of her and mint on my lips.

I sink into a chair, running a hand through my allegedly distinguished gray-streaked hair. Another feather falls.

My phone buzzes:

GRAYSON: So

GRAYSON: That looked like some intense PR strategy

GRAYSON: Though maybe next time close the blinds?

GRAYSON: Also, your back isn't going to thank you for that dip move tomorrow

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