Page 3 of The Boss

"Don't let it go to your head."

She's closer now. I don't know when that happened, but her elbow is resting on the bar and her body is angled toward mine. If I shifted six inches to the left, I could press my mouth to the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, maybe suck the skin and leave marks. Or maybe I could trail kisses along her jaw.

Fuck.

My eyes linger on the pulse of her throat up to the column and finally her full lips. Thoughts of her naked and writhing buzz in my skull. I want nothing more than to imprint her taste on my brain.

"You're staring again," she says quietly.

"Sorry."

"I didn't say I minded."

The air between us thickens, the words loaded with about fifty different meanings. Her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—so quick I might have imagined it—before meeting mine again.

The floor under my feet is gone, and I'm sliding through it, with nothing to break my fall. A magnetic current keeps slithering and swirling through my system.

"Vivian." My voice drops an octave.

"Yeah?"

I should ask her about the weather. About her job. About anything that doesn't involve getting her out of that dress or burying my cock in her depths. Instead, I lean forward until there's maybe three inches between us. So fucking close her scent envelops me.

"My room's upstairs. I can take your mind off work."

Vivian doesn't answer immediately, but I can practically see the gears turning in her head. She chews on her bottom lip, and without thinking, I tug it free before running my thumb along its pillowy softness.

She sucks in a sharp breath as I drop my hand on her thigh.

"This is not something I do," she whispers.

"What's that?"

"Go to hotel rooms with strange men I just met. I don't even know if you have a wife."

I lift both hands to show her no ring. "No, I don't. Not even a girlfriend."

"Doesn't make you less of a strange man." Her eyes suddenly widen with intent. "Probably even qualifies you as a strange man."

"True, but I don't like pineapples on pizza."

"Points in your favor."

"And if you so much as touch the duvet with your heels, I'm calling the cops."

"Oh, well, in that case." Vivian slides off her barstool and holds my gaze. "Lead the way."

The elevator ride is silent except for the soft hum of machinery and the sound of our breathing. She stands close enough that I can count the smattering of freckles across her nose. But when she turns to face me, a full foot shorter than me even in heels, I realize I'm done for.

I skim her bare arm with my knuckle, and Vivian responds by brushing the back of her hand against my erection.

My nostrils flare as I grit my teeth, knowing full well my self-control is hanging by a thread. So is my sanity.

When the doors open on the fourteenth floor, I have to concentrate on walking in a straight line and remembering which room is mine.

My key card beeps against the reader, and my room door opens at the slightest touch. She stops just past the threshold, looking around at the generic corporate luxury—king bed, leather chair, small fridge, and massive windows overlooking the city lights.

"Nice view," she says.