Page 24 of Late to Love

I’ve just finished cutting in a perfect rectangle for the wiring in the drywall when Anthony’s work boots appear in my periphery. I set my Dremel down and lift the safety glasses onto the top of my head, then sit back on my heels.

“Coffee.” He thrusts it in my direction, and I note he’s added the perfect amount of cream to it. I bet he’s also added the precise amount of sugar that I like, too. Because make no mistake: I’ve noticed the appearance of both in his kitchen, and I know it’s not for him. He takes his black, whereas I use mine as a delivery vehicle for delicious sugar and cream.

I take the mug and lift it to my lips, keeping my eyes on his the entire time. I’m more than aware of our positions here: him, standing before me, and me, kneeling in front of him.

I wonder how big his dick is. I bet it’s big.He’sbig, so it only stands to reason that the man’s dick would be proportionate. And, God, I bet he knows how to use it. The guys I’ve been with have been less than talented, and despite me directing them to angle this way and that, or go slower or faster, not one of them ever brought me to orgasm. Anthony, though? I bet he could make me come with ease.

“What’s that look for?” he demands.

“Thinking how easily you could make me orgasm.” If the man is going to talk to me about putting me over his knee and spanking me, then he better be prepared to get talked to right back.

His gaze narrows, but he doesn’t speak.

Interesting.

“Anyway,” I say, rising to my incredibly impressive five-feet-four, “thank you for the coffee. It’s just how I like it.”

He jerks his chin in a nod, then turns to leave.

“I’m grabbing lunch from the diner later. You want some?” We’ve done this before, so it’s not a stretch for me to ask.

“No.” He doesn’t bother to look back at me, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he opens the door and slips out, shutting it behind him with a bang.

But you know what? Fuck that. I’m bringing him lunch, anyway.

A few hours later, my knees are aching from all the floor action I’ve done today, and I grip the railing to keep from buckling as I make my way downstairs. The sights and sounds of Hall’s Balls are almost an assault after the calm solitude of the loft upstairs, and I plaster myself to the door, narrowly avoiding being run over by a very excited kid, waving handfuls of Skee-ball tickets as he runs to show them off.

Lights blink and flash all around me, kids squealing and hollering, the sound of balls cracking as a game of pool gets going. I actually remember coming here when it first opened. I was, what, fourteen? Yikes. Probably shouldn’t be thinking of how my fourteen-year-old self used to come here to play pool and pretend I was grown up, because here I am now, working on the loft upstairs and wanting very much to bang the same man who was responsible for all that fun at fourteen.

With a glance in the bar’s direction, I see the man himself braced against the bar, talking to a customer, his arms flexing as they hold him up.

I want to lick the divots in his arm muscles. That’s how ridiculously distracted Anthony has gotten me—I’m thinking about divots in arm muscles, of all things.

But to be fair, there are no guys my age running around with divots in their arms. Maybe I’m looking in the wrong places for that, but yeah...I want the forty-one-year-old.

When I come back from the diner, I head to the bar without hesitation.

“Aw, did you bring me lunch, Darcy?” Harrison asks, flirting shamelessly with me like always. He’s my age, maybe a few years older, and entirely appropriate for me. Maybe even legitimately interested. But I only have eyes for his grumpy boss.

Ignoring Harrison, I pull out the quinoa salad with extra chicken and dressing on the side and lay it in front of Anthony. It’s his usual.

“I said I didn’t want lunch.”

“What makes you think I care what you do or don’t want, Anthony?”

His eyes flash, the green in them blooming in irritation. What would it take to make his eyesallgreen? How furious would he have to be?

How bad is it that I want to see just how far I can push him?

Beside Anthony, Harrison watches us, his gaze bouncing back and forth as though we’re the most interesting tennis match he’s ever seen. Time seems to stretch, but I stay quiet, holding his gaze, letting the anger seep into me, swimming in it. Luxuriating in it. Wishing he’d punish me for not listening to him. Pissed off that he seems determined not to act on the attraction.

Finally, he grabs the to-go box and stalks to the other end of the bar, flipping the lid open and stabbing the food with a fork.

I win.

Chapter12

Anthony

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