Page 89 of Off the Grid

Her face softens. An expression glances through her eyes that I can’t quite interpret. “Good morning. You’re on my desk, Riggs.”

“I am?” I make a show of looking around. “Wow. Am I the arsehole or what?” I waggle my eyebrows.

“Witty.”

“I know.” I grin as she shifts her chair, which turns her to face me, and those legs of hers, one crossed over the other, are front and center. “First, last night and now this morning. All this skin. Should I be worried that you’re not feeling well?”

She shrugs but I can see the set of her jaw. Clearly this is a big deal to her for reasons unbeknownst to me. “Maybe you proved something to me last night.”

“Like?”

“Like I can trust you.”

I don’t know why her words cause a funny pressure in my chest, but they do. I never set out to make Camilla Moretti like me, let alone trust me, but the sap in me, who rears his pathetic head like once or twice a year, thinks it feels pretty damn good.

“If a man has to prove why you can’t wear what you want, he’s not the type of man you should be wasting your time, let alone a thought on.”

“Don’t you have a flat to go clean up?” she asks, clearly suggesting the discussion is over.

I decide to play along. Grin. Reach out to tug on a piece of her hair. “Are you asking me to do the walk of shame? That’s kind of hard to do when nothing happened.”

I rise from my perch and am not immune to her darted glance at my package.

“Like you would remember if it did or didn’t,” she says, leaning back in her chair and meeting my eyes.

I lean down, put my hands on both sides of her chair, and meet her eyes. “I’d remember all right. Especially when it comes to you.” I pause. “I have a feeling you’re the kind of woman who leaves a mark.”

“A mark?” Her eyes narrow and her head tilts. She’s having a hard time not letting her eyes wander.

Perfect. Let’s help her along with that. I scratch an imaginary itch on my pec. Then another right at the top of my thigh. I may grunt a little too at an itch being satisfied.

And fuck do I have one that needs to be satisfied.

“Yes. A mark,” I say, catching her eyes as they snap up from my hand on my thigh.

“Is that a good or bad thing?” she whispers.

“I haven’t quite figured that out yet.” I stand to my full height—my junk so very close to her eye level. Pause. Chuckle. Then collect my shirt and shorts from last night before heading to the door.

Another flashback hits me.

I can teach you the same thing this article can, but my lessons are free. And hands-on.

“Hey, Moretti?”

She looks over the lid of her laptop at me. With the sun streaming in through the window, it looks like there’s a halo around her head. Her hair is messy and her face is naked.

Fucking hell. She’s something else. More than something else. Beauty and brains.

“Hmm?”

“The offer still stands,” I say. I walk out the door, without turning back, and head to my flat and the disaster I’m no doubt walking into.

I’d say it was worth it.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE