He pulls me to a kiss. “Come on. It’s late, and you have work tomorrow.”
“I do,” I say. I gently trace my finger over his fading bruises. He’s shirtless, wearing only sweatpants that are loosely tied at his waist. “How are they?”
“Better.”
I press my palm against the largest one and feel his muscles quiver under my touch. I bite back a satisfied smile, delighted to see such tangible evidence that he desires me as much as I do him. “I hope so. They still look painful.”
“Better now with you,” he amends.
I slowly slide down to my knees, my fingers plucking at the drawstring of his sweats as I descend.
“Something on your mind, Ms. Brooks?” He sounds both amused and aroused. And his erection—now growing beneath the thin material—is certainly proof of the latter.
“I believe we discussed playing doctor?”
“Did we?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I tug loose the drawstring, and then let the sweats fall off him, though I do have to rearrange the material a bit to free his growing erection.
His sweats pool around his ankles, and as they do I lean forward and lick the tip of his cock.
“Oh, dear god,” he says, and twines his fingers in my hair. “What the hell are you doing?”
I laugh. “Sweetheart, if you don’t know—” And then, because I’m inspired, I grin up at him. “I’m taking your temperature,” I say, and then take him into my mouth as deep as I can.
He tastes wonderful. So male. So Jackson.
And as I stroke and lick and tease, his cock tightens, and he groans in a way that makes me go completely wet. And though I don’t want to stop—though I am loving this jolt of feminine power—right at this moment, I desperately want him inside me.
As if he can read my mind, he slowly pulls back, freeing his cock and then easing me up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Not a thing,” he says as he scoops me up and cradles me next to his bare chest. “Except that I think I might just die if I can’t lay you out on the bed and have my way with you right now.”
“Oh.” A wonderfully sensual tremor rolls through me. “Well, in that case, who am I to stop a man with a plan?”
twelve
“I have to be honest, Damien. I’m not thrilled with any of them. But I’m definitely vetoing Glau.”
“Are you?” He lifts a single brow, obviously amused.
We’re in the sitting area of his office, with me on the small sofa and Damien in a chair across a low coffee table from me. I’ve put together files of every possible architect for the Cortez project, and I’m holding them in my lap, ready to run through each candidate’s pros and cons. Now I lean forward and put the stack on the table, then sit back and cross my legs, hoping I look more confident and in control than I feel.
“Yes, Mr. Stark,” I say firmly. “I am.”
“Mr. Stark,” he repeats. He stands up and moves to the bar across the room. “I was wondering how pissed off you were. I guess now I know.”
I don’t try to deny it. I routinely call him Mr. Stark when I’m working his desk or when we’re with other people. But I’ve gotten so close to Nikki that formality feels awkward when I’m not in the role of his assistant. So yes, the fact that I called him Mr. Stark just now is my passive-aggressive way of telling him that as far as I’m concerned he’s making a huge mistake by cutting Jackson from the project.
He pours himself a shot of scotch, neat. “Care for one?”
I glance at my watch. It’s a quarter to five, and I figure that’s good enough. “Hell, yes.”
He chuckles, then returns with a glass for each of us. “I take it we’re not drinking to Martin Glau?”
“I mean it, Damien. I’ve spent days staring at his concept sketches and they’re just not up to snuff. You vetoed my choice without asking for my input despite the fact that I’m the project manager—”
“I just thought what with me owning the company and all …”
“No,” I say, the words spilling out before I can censor myself. “That’s not what you were thinking and we both know it. Shit.” I lift the glass and take a long drink. “Sorry. Apparently I’m in the mood today to commit career suicide. All I’m saying is that you don’t want Jackson and I don’t want Glau. So there you go.”
I take another sip of the drink and try to look as calm and composed as possible despite the fact that inside my head I am running a steady stream of fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
For a moment, Damien says nothing, and I wonder who in town might be hiring and whether or not Aiden will write me a good letter of recommendation. Over the years I’ve learned to read Damien pretty well. Right now, I don’t have a clue what he’s thinking.