Page 85 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
Matteo inclines his head. “It’s one of my favorites.”
Then I’m angry because he folded it!
He frowns at the look on my face. “What’s the matter?”
I point accusingly at the crease in the page. “This. This is the matter.”
I can tell he wants to roll his eyes, but he snaps the briefcase shut instead. Then he gets into this stance, the one he does when he’s being the Big Cheese. He folds his arms over his chest, spreads his legs shoulder width, and looks at me down his nose.
He says, “Get over here, and give me my fucking kiss.”
My heart stops. My mouth goes dry. In my hand, the sketch starts to tremble.
The son of a bitch smiles again.
“Not here. I have workers in the back.”
His mouth takes on a ruthless slant. “You’re stalling.”
“No, I’m not. I just don’t want everyone to see.”
“If they’re in the back, how are they going to see?”
“They could walk up front!”
He inhales through his nose, then exhales even slower, as if he’s forcing himself to remain calm. “Kimber.”
“Stop saying my name like that!”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Oh my God. You’re the most aggravating man on the planet, you know that?”
He growls, “You have ten seconds to get your ass around this counter and give me my kiss before I consider our deal null and void and set fire to the rest of your sketches.”
I gasp in horror. “You wouldn’t!”
His smirk tells me in no uncertain terms that yes, he certainly would.
Seething, I carefully place the sketch of the red dress on the counter. Then I straigh
ten my shoulders, lift my chin, and march around the counter, reminding myself how much I hate him, to the very bottom of my soul.
As soon as I’m within arm’s reach, Matteo grabs me and pulls me against his chest. He stares down hotly into my eyes. “I know,” he says gruffly. “You hate me. Now give me that mouth. It’s all I’ve thought about for two days.”
Are uterine transplants a thing? Because mine is totally out of control.
“Fine. Here.” I rise up on my toes and smash my lips against his in a clinical, close-lipped, extremely unsexy kiss that even a grandpa might find offensive.
Matteo and my uterus can both go to hell.
He turns his head enough to dislodge my dried prune of a mouth from his. Then he sends me a dangerous look. “Do that again and I’ll bend you over this counter and make you regret it.”
My feminist side is outraged. Ignoring all the other parts of me that are clamoring for a demonstration of exactly what he means, I sputter, “Don’t you dare threaten me! I’m not a child! I’m not your property to manhandle, you sexist, chauvinistic—”
Then his mouth is on mine, and he dissolves my anger with his lips, which are clearly laced with crack cocaine.
Because the high I’m getting must be drug induced. There’s no other rational explanation.
