Page 159 of Boss of Me
“I’m not looking for a fight!”
“Then why are you shouting?”
His reasonable tone only makes me feel hysterical. “Why are you acting like this, Gunner? Do you get off on torturing me?”
He stares at me, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “I’mtorturingyou?”
“You know you are! And it’s driving me—” I flinch when he suddenly slams the book down on a table.
I watch as he prowls toward me, forcing me backward like frightened prey retreating from a much larger, more lethal predator.
When my back meets the opposite bookshelf, I bravely lift my chin. “You’re?—”
He grabs my face and crashes his mouth down on mine. The impact slams into me like a tsunami, tilting the ground beneath my feet. When I gasp, he thrusts his tongue into my mouth, and my entire body quakes from head to toe.
Plunging his hands into my hair, he kisses me almost violently. Impatient. Demanding. Furious.
I whimper his name, swamped in sensation, drowning in need. He bites at my bottom lip and licks into my mouth, his tongue lashing mine with ruthless strokes.
My head is spinning, my hands grasping for something to hold before landing on his shoulders. He presses me flat against the bookshelf until there’s no space left between us, and every breath I take is his.
Just when I think he’s going to devour me whole, his kiss gentles, becoming sweet and tender. The sudden shift fills me with a fierce rush of longing and I moan softly, tangling my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He roughly breaks the kiss and stares down at me, both of us panting hard.
“Gunner . . .” I trail off helplessly.
Closing his eyes, he rubs his nose against my cheek and hair, breathing me in as if for the last time.
When I reach up to touch his face, he abruptly pulls away and steps back.
Dread sits like a stone in my stomach. Lifting trembling fingers to my bruised lips, I whisper, “Why did that feel like a goodbye kiss?”
His eyes darken before he looks away from me, staring at a point above my head.
“Gunner?” I can hear the quiver of fear in my voice, and I hate myself for it.
He pushes his hands through his hair to smooth back the thick strands, visibly pulling himself together before he meets my eyes.
I say quietly, “Can we talk about what’s happening here? Before you leave for your trip?”
I watch a mask slide over his face, as if he’s erecting an invisible wall between us.
I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. I want to remind him of all the things we felt for each other back on Kauai. All the unforgettable moments we shared, waltzing under the moonlight, making love beneath the stars, talking until sunrise.
I want to remind him of every promise he made to me. But looking at his emotionless face renders me mute, unable to speak another word.
“Alan Whitmore wants to hire you.”
The sudden change of subject knocks me off kilter, and I stare at him in miserable confusion.
“He’s the CEO of a popular streaming service. I told him about you, and after reviewing your credentials, he wants to bring you onboard as their senior music curator. He’s offering you a great salary and benefits with a flexible work schedule. You have an interview on Friday morning, but it’s just a formality. The job’s yours if you want it.”
I shake my head slowly at him. “I don’t want your charity, Gunner.”
“This has nothing to do with charity. You have the right skills and qualifications?—”
“Which he only knows about because I’m your girlfriend.” I soften my tone, not wanting to sound ungrateful. “I appreciate your help, Gunner. Truly. But I’m not interested.”
