Page 89 of Fifth Avenue Fling

I could have kept my fat trap shut, but instead, I—

The door is thrown open and slams hard against the wall.

Killian stands in the doorway, nostrils flaring, and jaw clenched, face like a bull about to charge.

Oh fuck.

My only saving grace is that he put on boxers.

The muscle in his jaw flexes so tight I think it might break. “No, that won’t be all,” he says in a low, husky drawl. Something gathers in his eyes—not just anger—something that looks a lot like lust.

He takes a step toward me, closing the gap between us.

I’m vaguely aware of myself backing away until I’m pressed against the wall, and his muscular arms form a barrier on either side of me.

“You think I’ll let an employee get away with that? You owe me an apology.”

“No, you owemean apology, Killian.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it catches in my throat.

He’s so close my body is literally shaking with anticipation, like he is electrifying me with his presence even though he’s not touching me.

His arms remain braced against the wall on either side of me. His breath is hot on my forehead. His whole body is just inches from mine. He smells like his body lotion, the one I sniff every day when I clean his bathroom. He’s not even touching me, but my body hums wildly in response.

My breathing is all over the place, my cheeks are on fire, and my corethrobswith anticipation and desire.

I feel overwhelmed and out of control.

“Why did you make me come home, Killian?” I rasp. “Why do you care if I stay out all night on my own time?”

He doesn’t answer me.

His eyes hold mine, and the burst of sexual energy is so palpable I can barely keep eye contact. The way he looks at me makes goose bumps break out over my arms and chest.

“Were your people spying on me?” I press on, knowing I’m playing with fire, but I can’t stop. “Why’d you make me come home?”

“I think you fucking know why.” His voice comes so breathy and thick with need, as if in pain.

I arch my hips against his thick erection.

Oh.

He lets out a shuddery groan and grabs them, holding them against him so I can’t move.

My palms slide over his warm, solid chest. I feel the flutter of his heart.

I’msodonefor.

“Goddammit,”he groans against my forehead. “What are you doing to me?”

“I dunno,” I whisper, our mouths almost touching. “You’ll have to explain.”

He groans again. “You’re on my mind all the time. I think about you at work. I think about you when I’m running. I think about you when I’m watching TV with my daughter, and Ihateit.”

I’m about to ask him to clarify whether that’s a compliment when he says, “I need to know what it feels like to be inside you.”

God.His voice is so masculine and sexual, I’mshakingwith need.

“Then find out,” I manage to croak, barely audible.

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