“As I said, I liked your hands on me.” Her face flamed red, like her fiery hair. And her temper when provoked.
In spite of the logical part of his brain shouting that this conversation was going in the wrong direction, his mouth kicked up on the side. “That’s right; more hands, less talking.”
Her lips twisted. “I need to watch what I say around you. It goes to your head.”
“It’s not every day a beautiful woman tells me how much she enjoys my hands on her.”
“Beautiful?” She pushed up her glasses. “I’m not beautiful.”
He snorted.
Her brow furrowed. “Some things men admire, but the rest…”
Right.Things.Try giant breasts that made a man’s mouth water. “We can call them things if you like. And the rest is outstanding too.”
“I stutter,” she continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “I’m not good with confrontation. And I wear glasses.”
“The glasses are hot as hell. I even like the stutter, because it means I’m affecting you.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Why would you want to affect me?”
Good question. He shouldn’t. And yet Bran stepped forward anyway. Because he did…he really, really did want to affect her. And make her feel good.
He reached out and touched her shoulder, sliding his hand slowly down her arm. He gently pulled her toward him. “Tell me to stop.”
“Why would I do that?” she said absently as he ran his hand up and down her arm.
“Because I’m your boss.” Which he was supposed to be putting an end to… “This is wrong.” He moved to step back, but Ireland leaned forward and rested her forehead against his chest. He fought to not cradle her head with his palm. Was fighting a lot of instincts right now.
Ireland wrapped her arms lightly around his waist. “It’s only harassment if it’s unwanted or if I feel pressured to be with you for career purposes. Fortunately for you, I don’t need this job.”
“Good.” He rubbed her back, losing the battle and unable to keep his hands off her. “Because I don’t think we can work together anymore.”
“Because of James?”
“No. Because of this.” Bran lowered his head and kissed Ireland lightly on her soft, plump lips that had called to him from the moment he’d met her. “You really should tell me to stop.”
“Okay. Stop talking. More kissing.”
She was going to be the death of him.
He shouldn’t listen. He needed to be in control.
He wasn’t.
Bran framed the sides of her face with his palms and kissed her with a passion that was truly worrisome. At the moment, he couldn’t remember why it was a bad thing to kiss and touch Ireland, and he didn’t care.
He ran his hands down her arms to her lower back, where he captured the shape of the most perfect ass. Or maybe it was perfect because it was Ireland.
He stilled. He needed to remove his hands from Ireland’s perfect, well-shaped, full ass…
“Don’t even think about talking right now,” she said. “Remember the rule?”
He groaned. He was close to losing control.
She ran her palms down his chest to his stomach, and his groin tightened. “Stop thinking,” she said, her voice breathy.
She stepped back and pulled him with her, the back of her thighs bumping into his desk.
