‘Your actors, their dirty talk is weak.’
‘What?’ If I wasn’t so shocked, I might laugh. ‘I know you’ve been watching, but—’
‘Come on, duchess. The best kind of porn has a little nastiness in it.’ His eyes flick down to my lips and back again. ‘Your actors have got the beauty of sex down, but their dialogue needs work.’
‘Thank you, Flynn Phillips. Thank you for that insight,’ I reply with an unpleasant sounding chuckle. ‘However, thousands of subscriptions say otherwise.’
‘You like it. Admit it.’
This time, I don’t laugh. Not as he slides the jacket from his shoulders, dropping it to the adjacent desk. Not as his long legs eat up the space between us. And not as he takes me in his hands, not his arms. This isn’t an embrace.
‘I want to try something.’ His gaze is wide and innocent, but the man doesn’t have an innocent cell in his body as far as I can tell. ‘You game?’ And apparently, it’s not a question that really needs an answer as he crushes me to his chest. He just... holds me there, flush against his body, my heart hammering against his.
‘Is it working yet?’ His deep words rumble through me, and the idea of just letting go—of hugging him back just as tight—is so very tempting.
‘Is what working?’ I ask a little breathlessly, hating how I sound, hating even more that I find I have breath to squeak when his hand slides down my back to rub both cheeks of my bottom.
‘I was wondering if your undies would fall off.’ His chest expands against mine as he lets out a theatrical sign. ‘But they’re still there.’
‘With a hug? Not even you are that good.’
‘No, but I am pretty good,’ he answers with a gleam as he pulls back. ‘And maybe a little more in tune than your best mate, Paisley.’
‘What has Paisley got to do with this?’
‘She reckoned you are in the need of the kind of hug that turns into dirty sex.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I grate out, pulling free from his strong arms. ‘She wouldn’t say those sorts of things. Not to you.’ I find the thought of any possible conversation between the pair distressing, the idea tightening my chest.
‘But I suppose we both have our theories.’
‘Is that what brings you here? Theories and half-cocked plans?’
‘You’ve got it wrong, duchess.’ He grasps my flailing hand, the one I’m trying very hard not to thump him with, and brings it to the front of his jeans. He presses my palm firmly against his erection, arching into my hand. ‘And this isn’t what I’d call half-cocked, would you?’
‘Flynn.. .’ I swallow audibly, his name sounding as though dragged over rough ground. ‘We can’t keep doing this.’
‘Doing what?’ he asks using that innocent tone again. ‘I dunno what you’re talking about,’ he says, stepping away. ‘What’s this chair used for?’ Grasping the back of a plastic office chair, he lifts it, depositing it halfway between the desk and the other side of the room.
‘It’s either from my office or the break room,’ I answer distractedly. To be honest, I’m not sure. The same as I’m not sure what direction this is heading.
Flynn grabs his jacket, striding to the rack of robes and hanging it there. Taking my reluctant hand, he pulls me over to the desk. ‘You stay there,’ he says, leaning my butt up against the edge. Then he walks back to the chair where he takes a seat.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he begins, leaning forward to untie the thin laces of his black oxfords. ‘Something hasn’t been right with you.’
‘Why are you taking your shoes off?’ Next off come the socks. His feet are tanned and long and rather elegant, as far as feet go.
‘I tried to ask you the other morning, but you were hell-bent on going back to sleep.’
‘You wore me out!’ I snap my mouth shut.
If he tries not to smirk, it isn’t working as he stands and loosens his tie, hanging it over the back of the chair before he begins unfastening the buttons on his shirt, top to bottom. ‘You’re not much of a giver are you, duchess.’
‘What? What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Hang on, that didn’t come out right. Youarea giver—you give to better other people—you give your time and energy. You give loads of that shit to your mates and those you love. But you don’tgivea lot of stuff away about yourself. See, to me,’ he adds ponderingly, pulling his shirt free of his waistband. ‘There’s something going on, and you just won’t ask for a helping hand.’
I might argue, but my words are stolen as he strips from his shirt, exposing his sculpted torso and strong arms, but as the clink of his belt reverberates through the room, I find my words.
