Page 63 of Boss Me

“No.”

His eyes glinted golden. “Then we’ll try it like this.”

He turned his back toward me and shoved his ass into my groin, knocking me off balance just enough that I reached out instinctively and grabbed his hips. They swayed, and like we were glued together, mine followed.

He looked at me over his shoulder. “See? Nice and easy.”

There was nothing nice about the way my dick hardened against his tight jeans. Or easy about the way my fingers dug into his hips, searching to anchor me in the twirling, confusing club.

It didn’t matter that there were new silver threads in my hair. That I was stiff and gruff and wearing fucking business casual to a club. Inexplicably, Ben wanted me. It was evident in every grind of his ass against me, in the way he leaned his back into my chest. In the nip of his teeth against his lip. When I gripped his hips tighter, my right middle finger bumped something hard and heavy at the front of his jeans. Ben sucked in a breath.

He set his sweat-slicked hands over mine and curled his fingers. The next second, he executed a flowing move like he’d done it a thousand times. He lifted my hands from his hips and twirled so that we stood face to face, our hands clasped high above our heads.

His chest bumped mine, and my nipples hardened at the touch. My abs pressed against his stomach the way I wished my fingertips could. The bulge at the front of his jeans brushed against my erection as his hips pitched, and I shivered despite the heat of the club. Grinding his hips into mine, he moved closer and closer until his face hovered just a few inches below mine.

“Want to get out of here?” He spoke low. Even under the pounding rhythm of the music, I heard every word.

My throat too dry to speak, I nodded.

A cab ride and a text to Mateo later, we stepped into my house, my ears still ringing from the club.

Despite Ben’s claim that his ankle would hold up to a night of dancing, he winced as he untied his dress shoes and set them next to the door.

“Sit on the couch and put your foot up. I’ll make you an ice pack.” I washed my hands at the kitchen sink.

“I don’t want to put my foot up. I want—”

I speared him with the gaze that meant my word was final. “You will sit on the couch and rest your ankle.”

“Yes, Mr. Fallon,” he said breathlessly.

When he’d settled on the couch, his foot propped on the coffee table, I handed him a glass of water. I peeled off his sock and found the wrap cutting into his swollen foot. “Okay if I unwrap your foot?”

“Don’t touch my foot. It’s sweaty.”

“I don’t mind your sweat.” In fact, I wanted to bury my nose in his chest and breathe in the sharp scent of it. Holding onto my control by a thread, I gently pulled the tape off his foot and laid the gel ice pack Sara had brought over his ankle.

“Better?” I asked.

One corner of his mouth crooked up. “Better.”

I balled up the tape and took it to the kitchen to toss it in the trash. I washed my hands again and got my own glass of water.

In the living room, I hesitated. I should remove myself from temptation. I should go into my room and lock the door.

But what if Ben needed help to hobble into his room? I couldn’t leave him alone.

Ben made up my mind for me. “Come here. Tell me what you thought about the club.”

“It was a club, same as any other.” I shrugged, trying to be nonchalant about it as I lowered myself to the coffee table in front of him.

“And the dancing?”

Remembering how he’d beckoned me to the floor, how our hips had bucked together, how he’d almost kissed me right there under the spinning lights, made my pants uncomfortably tight. I cleared my throat. “I liked it.”

“I liked it, too.” He levered forward and set his hand on my knee. Need traveled up my thigh straight to my groin and parked itself there, hot and heavy. My breath turned shallow.

“Those guys at the club were pretty hot. Especially the one with the hat.”

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