That panty-dropping grin makes me shiver. In the six years of working at Quinn & Wolfe, I’ve never seen the man crack a smile. Now it’s directed at me, dark and hungry.
My heart’s a mess.
Do not overthink this.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, yourself. You’re stunning,” he drawls, a hint of a growl underlying his words. His gaze languidly appraises my ensemble—a blue dress designed with a theme of “boho sexy casual chic” in mind—leaving me feeling utterly exposed.
I’m blushing, and barely through his front door.
Little does he know what’s under this innocent frock. I might be dressed for a casual dinner, but underneath, it’s all Agent Provocateur. I am plucked, preened, primped, and primed for whatever’s to come. So hairless that my clit is rubbing against my underwear, raring to go.
He opens the door wider to let me in, but just as I’m about to slip past him, his hand lightly skims over my hip, halting my steps. Electricity zings up my spine from his touch.
“You’re forgetting something.”
My mind spins, then it hits me. Mortified, I slap a hand over my mouth. “I’m such a disgrace of a guest. I didn’t bring any wine! Just because you’re a billionaire doesn’t mean I should abandon my manners.” How embarrassing.
“No, darling, not that.” A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. “This.”
Then, faster than my poor brain can compute, he yanks me into his steely embrace, landing a kiss on my lips so possessive, it robs me of breath. Oh, Jesus. We’re getting down to the dirty already.
The man’s kisses are lethal. My knees buckle under the onslaught of sensations but he holds me up effortlessly.
“Mmm, I’ve been wanting to do that all damn day,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Hmmm,” I manage back. I really need to brush up on my sexy talk. Maybe even enroll in a course.
Luckily, he doesn’t seem that put off. His arousal presses against me through his sweatpants.
He groans into my mouth, hands roving over my backside with an urgency that would make even Christian Grey blush. “I should be a gentleman. Wine and dine you first.” He winks, eyes glinting with mischief. “But just so you know, I plan to do a lot more of that later.”
A thrill races through me as I imagine those plans in vivid detail. “I’m always up for skipping straight to dessert,” I rasp.
“Patience, sweetheart.” He chuckles, the sound reverberating through my entire body.
He releases me from his embrace and takes my hand, leading me through the hallway.
I tail his glorious ass into the giant kitchen/dining room combo. The place looks like it could be on the cover ofBillionaire Monthly, all sleek lines and minimalism.
My eyes are drawn to the dining table, decorated with an amazing centerpiece of flowers.
“Did you do all this?” I stutter.
He gives a nonchalant shrug and a coy grin as he saunters over. “I’m not completely inept, Lucy. I know how to set a table.”
“But it looks like you’ve put in so much effort.” My palms are a hot and sweaty mess. Suddenly, the reality of JP going all out for me has me brimming with terror. And I didn’t even think to bring a bottle of wine. Idiot.
He shrugs again, bracing his hands on the counter, caging me in. “It’s just dinner.”
Just dinner. As if anyone’s ever put this much effort into feeding me. The cost of these flowers alone probably tops my monthly bills.
I let out a sound, hoping it sounds like “I need to have all your babies.”
With that, he saunters off casually toward the bar area, pours a small glass of wine—which is quickly becoming my favorite—and slides it over to me.
When he opens the oven, my eyes nearly pop out. He actually cooked.
