I slap a hand over my mouth to hold back the sound and feel his mouth lift in a smile against my skin before he presses a soft kiss to my shoulder.
It’s tender and intimate. I close my eyes, relishing the feeling even though I know I shouldn’t. Tender and intimate aren’t what we agreed to.
He seems to realize this at the same exact moment and pulls away until he slides out, severing our connection.
Cold immediately replaces the warmth on my back where he once was, and the feeling of loss hits me unexpectedly. Will he walk out and leave me again like he did last night?
Fabric presses to my leg where his cum drips. I look over my shoulder to see my boss on his knees, wiping my thighs.
He’s being sweet and tender again.
He catches me staring and our eyes lock. My throat tightens, and an uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability settles over me. I don’t want to go back to my desk and pretend this didn’t happen, but he’s my boss, and I’m leaving the country. What else can I do?
“Come home with me?”
I nod.
CHAPTER 8
Mr. Carlson
Paige walks into my apartment, kicks off her heels, and drops onto my couch, settling into my home like she belongs here.
Tension, which I was unaware of carrying, leaves my shoulders.
Instead of analyzing my reaction and looking for a meaning I’m not sure I’m ready for, I pour two glasses of wine and walk toward her.
She takes the offered glass. “It’s midafternoon.”
“I don’t care.”
Paige’s gaze travels around the rest of my apartment, taking in the walls styled with framed artwork and the thick-piled carpet. “Your apartment looks very comfortable.”
I smirk. “Did you make that determination today or yesterday?”
Blood rushes to her cheeks, turning the tips of her ears red. “I was a little distracted yesterday.”
I love how she can go from confident and sassy one minute to shy and innocent the next. It makes me want to corrupt her in depraved ways, like her fantasy book boyfriends, and then curl up on the couch beside her like I belong there.
“What were you expecting my apartment to look like?”
“Leather, blacks and grays. A bachelor pad, not something so homey.”
Her praise sinks into me, warm and enthralling. The dopamine rush is more rewarding than the hit I get from winning a case or signing a new client. “I designed it to be a second home.”
Somewhere a family could retreat to when in the city for work or family events.
“Where’s your first?”
“My ex-fiancee is living in it with her husband.”
I answer without hesitation, which is surprising. I’m not usually open about my personal life to anyone except Alex.
Her brows pull together slightly, creating a soft, concerned crinkle between them. “What happened?”
“She thought I started the firm for the clients and notoriety.” I watch her, waiting to see her response.
“But you did it to fund your pro bono cases.”
