It died instantly.
Mari Landry stood in the doorway, her blue eyes widening before narrowing to dangerous slits. She wore a structured pink dress with flowers along the hem. Her blonde hair fell in waves to her shoulders, considerably more controlled than her expo appearance.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she said.
“Ms. Landry,” I said, defaulting to formality. God, I needed the room to be bigger. I needed distance from the little she-devil. Necessary distance, given how my body was currently betraying eight years of disciplined self-control with a rush of inappropriate memories: her skin against hotel sheets, the perfect curve where her waist met her hip, the surprising number of times I’d made her climax. On my fingers. On my lips. On my dick.
Shit. I was getting hard.
Damn her.
Stop. Think of something else. Anything else.
“What the hell are you doing here?” She demanded, dropping her portfolio onto the table with such force that it disrupted my perfectly arrangedmaterials.
“I have a meeting with clients,” I said, adjusting my business cards back to their precise angle. “I presume from your presence that you’re here for the same purpose.”
“No, I crashed a private dining room for fun,” she snapped.
“My meeting is scheduled for 11:30.”
“No, dickweed,mymeeting is scheduled for 11:30.”
We glared at each other. Either there had been a scheduling error, or...
“They double-booked us,” I concluded, running a hand over my face. “Great.”
“Great?” She dropped into a chair across from me, her portfolio sprawling across the table. “It’s not great; it’s annoying. And suspicious.”
I remained standing, maintaining the height advantage. Not that she’d have one even if I were sitting and she were standing. The she-demon was short, even wearing heels. “They’re likely interviewing multiple planners. It’s standard practice for high-profile clients.”
“At the exact same time?” Her eyes narrowed further. “Since when do celebrities save time?”
Valid point.
“Let’s get something straight,” Mari continued, leaning forward. “Whatever happened between us?—”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I stated, trying to sound detached.
“Don’t play dumb with me, dickhead.”
“Do you get off on calling me names as much as you did with my tongue on your clit?”
The question escaped before I could stop myself. I had never spoken—would never speak—to a woman like that. But Mari Landry brought out a side of me I’d spent too many years trying to hide behind perfection. In thirty seconds, she’d bulldozed every safeguard I’d put in place to remain professional.
The damn bitch.
I was even swearing, albeit in my head.
“Bastard.” Color flooded her cheeks. “If I had known you were a condescending, perfectionist asshole, I would have ordered room service and watched pay-per-view instead.”
“That’s a lie,” I replied, noticing how her pupils dilated further when I held her gaze. “By the way you reacted that night, I doubtanother man has ever even found your clit, let alone made you climax hard enough you nearly stopped breathing.”
“You—”
“Multiple times.”
Her lips parted, the bottom one fuller than the top. I’d noticed that little detail two weeks ago when those same lips had been wrapped around my cock.
