“Have you ever had my pickles?” he asked.
I went red.
Get your mind out of the gutter.
“I’m sure it’s tasty,” I said with a sniff, “but not for me.”
“Why don’t you put it in your mouth and find out?”
Lord. I could probably grill the hamburgers with the sexual heat that man was putting out.
He picked out one of the pickles, sliced it, and held it out to me.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered.
I shivered, thinking about him saying that when it was his cock in front of me.
He slipped the slice in my mouth. My tongue slid over his fingers, and his index finger grazed my lip slightly as he removed his hand from my mouth.
“And?” he said.
“It’s not that bad,” I said begrudgingly.
Beck’s mouth quirked. “Exactly what every man wants to hear a woman say about his pickle.”
36
Beck
Tess followed me out to the patio, where the grill was heating up. I almost wished she hadn’t.
What kind of stupid line was that? Have you tried my pickle?
But her tongue against my fingers—I wanted to feel that on my cock.
I slapped the burgers on the grill while Tess hovered next to me. I should say something. But all I wanted to say was that I wanted to spend the rest of the evening fucking her into a sweaty, moaning mess in my bed, which hardly seemed appropriate for the occasion.
“I’m going to make cupcakes,” she said abruptly and went inside.
I stood in front of the grill, breathing in the smoke, cursing myself for flirting with Tess, for not flirting with Tess more, for not just accepting the boundaries in our professional relationship and staying far the fuck away from them.
But I wanted her.
You only want her because she’s forbidden.
“Bro!” Walker called, stepping onto the patio, two glasses of scotch in his hand. “Are you trying to cook those burgers with a death glare?”
“I’m under a lot of stress.”
Walker handed me a drink and adjusted his sunglasses.
“It’s Greg, isn’t it?” Walker said confidently. “He’s been in my shit lately about his whole tower-takeover scheme. I mean, honestly, even if it does work, then Belle’s going to sic her brothers on him.”
“As if the Frosts are any match for me.” Greg scoffed, stepping onto the terrace. “And I’m appalled at the lack of support from my own family, but it’s no surprise. You all are small-minded individuals. If it wasn’t for me and my investment prowess, you two would be hawking hot dogs in Central Park.”
“Hey, I was talking to the hot dog guy the other day,” Walker said. “And he does half a million in revenue a year.”
Greg’s upper lip curled. “With all our companies combined, we do that much in revenue in a day. And, Beck, you would know that if you weren’t so busy chasing after your assistant.”
