Page 55 of Fifth Avenue Fling

Soft footsteps pad toward the kitchen. I look up to see her wrapped in a nightgown. Thank fuck. I could do without the unwanted arousal.

“Hey,” she says sheepishly, hovering at the doorway of the kitchen as if worried I’ll bite her.

She glances at my outfit—gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt—and seems relieved that I’m no longer in just my underwear.

I get off the stool and go to the drinks cabinet, giving her a slightnodingreeting.

She comes to stand beside me, loitering awkwardly.Her robeislooserthanI need it to be. I avert my eyes from the slit on her thigh to reveal soft, creamy skin.

“Do you want me to pour it?”

I direct my chin toward the barstool. “You’re not on the clock now.”

She smiles coyly, tilting her head up. “If I’m not on the clock, does that mean you’re not my boss right now?”

I step closer to her, close enough to smell her scent and see every light freckle dotted on her nose.

Lust hits me at the worst possible time, and my cock thickens in my sweatpants.On a caveman level, I want to fuck her. To lay her body out on the kitchen table, push my angry throbbing cock deep inside her tight young pussy and feel it spasm around me.

But just because I want her physically doesn’t mean I’m foolish enough to act on it. New York is overflowing with beautiful women, and I have no intention of crossing any boundaries with the little Irish troublemaker.

“I’m always your boss. Do as you’re told and take a seat.”

Her face flushes as she nervously laughs, trying to hide her obvious reaction to me. Is that little pussy getting wet for me right now?

She does as she’s told and sits.

I pour two generous portions of whiskey on the rocks before making my way over to the kitchen island and taking a seat on the opposite stool. That way, I can’t see the slit running up her thighs while she’s seated.

I hand her the glass, our eyes meeting as she takes it from me. “The Irish don’t do whisky as well as the Scots. This is one of the finest whiskys you’ll ever taste, aged in the Highlands for over thirty years.”

“Older than me.” She places it under her nose and erupts into a coughing fit. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Try it.”

She takes a second sniff. “What if I hate whisky? Don’t I get a choice?”

“You won’t hate it.”

Unconvinced, she brings the glass to her lips and tentatively takes a sip. Her face screws up as the liquid hits the back of her throat.

“Good?” I ask.

“Strong. I don’t have much to compare it to.” She attempts a second sip. “It burns on the way down.”

She swivels gently on the stool, eyes crinkling in contentment. “I’m glad we’re past the unfortunate incident this evening.”

“We’re not past anything. I’m still deciding whether to reprimand you.”

“Oh.”Her mouth falls open as she tries to ascertain whether I’m being serious. She nervouslybitesherlowerlip, her eyesconveyingthe thrill she’s trying toconceal. “How… how would you reprimand me?”

Oureyeslock, the surged energy charging in the air between us.

My grip on the glass hardens. “You sure you want to go there?” I let my gaze linger, and herfaceturnsbright pink.

She bottles it. She nervously twirls a lock of her deep red hair and looks down at her glass. “I don’t understand how Liam got the address,” she says softly, tryingto defusethetension in the air. “The only person who has it is my friend Orla, and she wouldn’t give it to him.”

“My address is on the internet.”

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