Cocking one eyebrow, Mr. Carlson drags his underwear up, his movement almost leisurely as he covers his length, tucks his shirt inside his pants, closes the zipper, and pops the button into place.
Apart from a few wrinkles in his shirt, he looks put together, professional, and completely composed. He looks nothing like a man who was ready to bust all over his fist seconds earlier.
Is that what he had to ‘take care of’?
The realization sinks in, making my skin burn even hotter.
“Paige.”
“Hmm?”
“Come here.”
His tone is low and authoritative—an order without room for argument. Of course, my bratty side wants to argue, but my overly sensitive nipples love the sensation his tone evokes beneath my skin.
I shut my mouth and walk toward him, flushed, vibrating, and very sticky between my thighs.
Is this really happening? Am I about to get my grumpy-boss fantasy? How hard would the tiles feel against my knees?
He opens a drawer, pulls out a pen, then takes the file from my hand. He signs each document, gripping the pen with the same fingers that had been closed around his length minutes earlier.
He hands me the folder of signed paperwork. “I’ll see you at seven p.m.”
And he walks out of the room.
CHAPTER 4
Mr. Carlson
Professionalism is a standard I live by and not something I struggle with—ever—but acting like I’m not one stroke away from blowing is testing my poker face more than any courtroom.
Paige watched me.
She didn’t get flustered and try to leave or apologize. She looked like she wanted to devour me.
And fuck, I wanted her to.
I want her.
The way her eyes flashed when I ordered her closer was almost my undoing. She would have dropped to her knees if I’d demanded it, just like in a scene from one of her reviewed books. If she hadn’t mentioned the paperwork, I might have acted like one of her favorite characters and told her to drop to the floor.
I try to ignore the slit in her dress as she sits beside me on the drive to the auction house, but it’s impossible. She’s in that dress. The plum color draws my eyes to her knee and down the silky curve of her calf to her ankle.
But I can’t see the tattoo.
I drum my fingers on my knee. The rhythmic tap, tap is distracting enough to stop my hand from gripping her ankle and tugging her foot onto my lap to reveal my hidden obsession.
Real fucking professional, Parker.
I glance at my watch for a distraction, then grimace. “It’s 7:15.”
We’re late.
Paige drags her gaze from the cab window and locks with mine. Thick lashes frame her blue eyes, giving her that sexy assistant look that makes my pants tighten. Her mouth lifts up on one side, “Look at you, learning to tell time like a big boy.”
All blood flows to my cock, stealing my response.
She lifts one brow in a slow, teasing arch, challenging me. She’s waiting for me to say something.
