And dammit, Erik would have to let him. Because he had zero intentions of keeping his hands off his best friend’s sister.
Erik pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Shit.”
He’d really screwed up. Jeremy had sent his sister to him to provide a safe place to work and land. And he’d betrayed that trust by fucking her in a tattoo chair.
Not only had he broken the Bro Code, but he’d blown it up and salted the earth beneath the pieces.
Guilt crept through him, but another, hotter emotion wound along his veins, settling in his dick—and his chest. This would all be so much easier if he could chalk it all up to lust and sex. Not that Jeremy would go for that, but it wouldn’t have Erik firmly stuck in WTF mode.
He’d had sex before. Good sex. Dirty sex. Even phenomenally good, dirty sex.
But what happened here in that back room with Camille Saturday night... That didn’t even have a level or a name. Other than What the Fuck Was That?
Just thinking on it—again—had his body hardening, readying. His fingers curled around the armrests as if that would prevent him from launching himself across the office, down the hall and into the lobby where she worked the front desk. This morning had been the first time they’d seen each other or spoken since Saturday night. And while she’d acted as if nothing had happened between them, he’d barely convinced himself that hauling her back to his office and burying his face between her legs was a bad idea.
Barely.
So he’d hidden here in his office until he could get his thoughts and dick under control.
He’d tagged Camille as trouble from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. And he hadn’t been wrong. But instead of being a threat to his daily routine and business, she threatened every resolve and shred of control he possessed. Every decision and opinion about his life here in Rose Bend.
He’d temporarily hired trouble, and now he wanted to keep her.
Shit.
Propping his elbows on his desk, he thrust his fingers through his hair, tugging on the strands. He wanted the right to slide back inside that tight, perfect body. Desired the freedom to touch her, brush his lips over hers or that elegant slope of shoulder. Longed to see her face light up with a smile that reflected in her chocolate brown eyes.
He craved it all. And he didn’t know what the fuck he was going to do about it.
A knock on the office door interrupted his spiral of thoughts, and he glanced up to see Jake standing in the doorway, a troubled frown creasing his brow.
“Hey, Erik, sorry to bother you, man, but I think you should head out front. Camille—”
Before the other man could finish the sentence, Erik erupted from the chair and rounded the desk. Urgency propelled him past Jake and into the hall. Before he reached the doorway leading to the lobby, he heard Camille.
Ice crackled like a spiderweb over his chest. And underneath, a simmering, red-tinged anger.
“I’m only going to tell you one more time. No,” Camille said, her tone flint. “It’s the same in several languages. Now, I’ll ask you one more time to leave me alone.”
“I just have a few more questions, Camille—”
“Ms. Dansen,” she corrected in the same flat tone that still conveyed her disgust.
“Sure. Ms. Dansen. If you’ll just tell me whether or not you were the woman Bradley Luck met at the downtown Renaissance. And if so, how often did you two meet? Did you plan on stealing him back from his fiancée?”
Even before Erik charged through the door, he knew he’d find a reporter on the other side of the desk. Only one of his kind possessed that particular note of vicious yet gleeful avarice. As if he’d scented blood in churning water and couldn’t wait to feed.
The tall, slender man in a white shirt and jeans leaned over the desk, crowding into Camille’s personal space. Behind him, another man held a camera, filming the entire exchange. Erik didn’t even stand in its glaring, intrusive eye and his skin crawled.
But worse than that creeping sensation over his body was the completely blank expression she wore. He didn’t know Camille, with her expressive eyes, could appear so...removed.
The anger kindling inside him flared into a fire, and he strode over to stand beside her.
“You’re in my shop, bothering my employees, and she told you to get out. So why the fuck are you still standing here?”
The reporter’s eyes widened. “I was just asking Camille a few questions and then—”
“Ms. Dansen. You don’t know her like that. Again, she doesn’t want to talk to you. And since this is private property,myprivate property, I’m only going to tell you one more time to get out. Or get thrown out.”
