Page 34 of Last on the List
“So bossy,” I moan and rock into his touch, feeling light-headed as my orgasm threatens to come barreling through at any second.
His hand then stills inside me, and my eyes pop open to find that his expression has completely shifted. That wickedness, that slight curve of his mouth, that darkened look in his eyes…it’s all gone. And it’s been replaced with the most horrific thing I can imagine at this moment…
Regret.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he croaks, pulling his hand literally out of my body like a bucket of ice water has been dumped on him. I fall forward when he moves away from me quicker than lightning. His arms are bowed out at his sides as he looks around the tiny house like he’s just snapped out of a fever dream. “Fuck, this was stupid.”
“What? Why?” I ask, struggling to stand upright on my wobbly legs, still feeling the aftermath of what his fingers almost accomplished as my sensitive clit throbs from being denied once more.
“You’re my employee,” he snaps, his tone morphing from sexy Max into grumpy CEO. “Fuck, you’re my kid’s nanny. This is ten kinds of fucked up.”
He turns on his heel, and his hands form into tight fists at his sides. Lightning flashes through the windows, illuminating his tortured pose. My God, he looks as though he’s just found out his house is on fire. This has to be about more than just the fact that I work for him.
My voice is weak when I offer, “I was a willing participant.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he thunders back, his eyes haunted. “This was inappropriate. I should have known better.”
The chastising tone of his words pierce through any shred of dignity I had left. I feel dirty and ashamed as he looks at me like I’m the worst mistake of his life. Is hooking up with me really such an appalling concept to him? I realize he can get girls ten times hotter than me, but to act like I’m some kind of disgusting mistake is a degradation I can’t stomach.
“You need to go,” I state through clenched teeth, willing my voice not to shake from the rejection blanketing over top of me.
Max turns around, looking guilty, which only makes this situation ten times worse. “Cassandra, I’m so sorry.”
“Max,” I grind out, holding my hand up to stop him from trying to talk his way out of this. “Just…go.”
He closes his mouth and nods woodenly, giving my body one last glance before tucking tail and damn near running away from me.
I exhale a trembly breath as I huddle against myself, alone in my tiny house. I am a confident female. I look in the mirror every day and I like what I see. I know my worth.
But being so swiftly rejected by Max Fletcher has somehow managed to poke tiny holes in all those confidences I’ve worked my entire life to build.
“You are the dumbest smart person I know,” Dakota jabs, taking a sip of her second cocktail that was delivered smoking inside a glass dome on a platter for dramatic effect.
It’s Saturday night, and we’re currently at a place calledLicense No. 1.It’s a dark, sultry, Speakeasy-type bar located in the stone basement of a historic hotel in downtown Boulder. There’s a live jazz band playing on the small stage, and the place is brimming with couples.
Clearly, Dakota and I are not joining the couple crowd anytime soon. In fact, I’m debating joining the friendship crowd because with every judgmental word Dakota shoots my way, I realize I might be in the market for a new best friend.
“Thanks, bestie,” I snap, grumpily sipping my lavender gin cocktail in a fancy coupe glass.
She rolls her eyes. “Like honestly, all those romance novels you’ve been reading lately should be making you more confident, not less.”
I eye her warily. There is just something righteously irritating about childhood best friends. They think they can voice any opinion about you because they happened to wear a heart-shaped pewter pin with your picture in it on their sweater to school every day in fifth grade. Apparently, that level of bestie devotion means they can make scathing remarks on your personality or lack of emotional intelligence while smugly insinuating they know you better.
Even tonight, when we were looking at the extensive cocktail menu, I struggled with what to order, so Dakota just picked one for me while in the bathroom without even asking me.
It was fucking delicious.
Damn her.
“I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better about my situation, not worse.” I slide my finger along the fancy charcuterie board that we demolished within moments of the server setting it down in front of us. I really love how they added handles to the sides. I should shop for hardware tomorrow to add that to mine.
Dakota reaches out and touches my hand. “Focus, Cozy. You just told me you had a hot make-out sesh with Million-Dollar Max that involved loads of heavy petting and a hickey souvenir.” She giggles on the last word, and I debate punching my best friend in the nose. “And then he just freaked out and bolted?”
My hand touches the space on my chest where the red welt is, and images of last night explode in my mind. His body, his tongue, his teeth, our breaths. I close my eyes and swallow the knot in my throat. “That about covers it.”
“And you think it’s because he’s out of your league?” She stares at me in disbelief.
I shrug and nod, forcing my chin not to wobble with the overwhelming sense of raw vulnerability I’m feeling right now.
