“Where the fuck did you learn that?”
“My father, mostly.” I shrugged and offered an apologetic smile. “And my brothers, and the Navy SEALs my dad used to train.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know about you, Miss Halsted,” he coughed. “Like your badass motherfucker training.”
Straightening, he approached me, his hands outstretched in surrender. His lips hovered over mine for a moment before capturing my mouth in a kiss far too passionate for a Monday afternoon, for an office vestibule, for any part of my life.
His fingers moved beneath my suit coat and he yanked the satin blouse from my waistband, diving under to knead my lower back. His gaze was curious, confused, and though I knew I should tell him to stop, I wanted this one last treat.
“I don’t know what that look means, sweetness.”
“Nothing,” I said. I enjoyed his chin stubble on my neck too much. This was getting too comfortable, too fast. “Just a lot to do before I leave. A lot on my mind. Let’s…let’s go upstairs.”
Walsh Associates looked different after spending the weekend with Matthew. He offered limited details about his siblings—their birth order, areas of specialization, and the bizarre, semi-awful nicknames they had for each other.
It all made a little more sense when I noticed an artfully framed magazine spread on the wall reading ‘Samuel Walsh: Beantown’s Next Great Architectural Visionary.’ Around the corner, I spotted another glossy print, this one featuring a petite redhead with her arms crossed over her chest and the headline ‘The Hand That Holds It Down.’ On the landing, I noticed anArchitectural Digestspread filled with sweeping photos of a restored home and the heading ‘Patrick Walsh’s Midas Touch.’
Climbing another set of stairs to Matthew’s office, his hands shifted from my waist to cup my rear end. Stopping, I turned to slide a glance over my shoulder, and his mischievous grin whipped that herd of butterflies in my chest into action. “What are you doing?” I asked, a laugh infused in my words.
“I’d rather you make it upstairs injury-free, although now I’m a little afraid of you. Please don’t blind me with your heel.”
“I’d wager you’ve stopped worrying about whether I can handle myself on the streets.”
“Let’s not talk about that,” he murmured. He steered me toward his office and stopped at the desk outside his door. “Theresa, this is Lauren Halsted. Lauren, this is Theresa Sherill. She’s the brains behind this operation.”
“We’ve met,” Theresa said. “Nice to see you again, Lauren. What, no Mike’s? You spoiled me with those sfogliatella.”
“Next time.” I smiled at the plump, white-haired woman, but I wasn’t convinced there’d be a next time. Once the construction on my building started, I wouldn’t need to visit his office, and once things ended with Matthew…well, I could always drop off some pastries without seeing him.
“I’m holdin’ you to that,” she said.
“Let Shan know we’ll be ready for her in about fifteen minutes,” Matthew said. Theresa nodded in response while she eyed his hand on my back, and if I still cared whether he regularly fucked clients, her astonished expression shut it all down.
Inside his office, Matthew kicked the door shut and wrapped his arms around my waist, his chest warm against my back. “All I could think about last Friday was bending you over my desk and fucking you until you screamed. You in that little red dress? I was hard the minute you walked in. It was torture, and this isn’t much better.”
Okay, new plan: all fizzling out to begin tomorrow.
I reminded myself it wasn’t wrong to enjoy the feel of his hands on my body or the heat of his words, and that I’d get my life in order after this. Until then, there was something hard and thick pressing against my lower back, and I wanted him bending me over that desk.
“Mr. Walsh, that sounds very inappropriate,” I murmured.
“Let me show you how inappropriate,” he growled. “I know you can feel me. How much I want you.”
A throat cleared on the other side of Matthew’s office and my eyes snapped open.
“I’m gonna go. I don’t think you need me for this meeting,” the young man said from the conference table.
I stifled an uncomfortable laugh and smiled, my face reddening. Matthew’s arms locked around my body, and with a low snarl rumbling through his chest, I sensed he was devising ways to murder the man who bore more than a passing resemblance to him.
Whispering into my ear, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to grope you in front of my little brother.”
“Well at least I didn’t let you fuck me in front of him,” I said. Matthew laughed, his body vibrating against mine, and his grasp tightened around my waist.
“Hey. I’m Riley. What’s up?” he called, his fingers winging from his forehead in a casual salute.
“Riley, this is Miss Halsted. We’re working on her project at Trench Mills.”
“Nice,” Riley trilled, his grin growing until a twinkle lit his eyes. That smirk was unambiguous—he heard every word—and if it was possible to feel blood pressure rising, I was feeling Matthew’s. I busied myself in my tote bag, ducking out of the way of Matthew’s death stare.
