Right now, I’d follow this man anywhere.
My tights are back on, my skirt is covering my thighs again, and I want nothing more than to drag Daniel to my hotel room. There’s no way I’m done with him for the night.
But when we step out of the Naiad office building and he turns in the opposite direction of where my hotel is located, I frown.
“Where are we going?” I ask, taking a few quick steps to keep up. For a moment, I panic and assume I’ve misunderstood his words back in the office. He said let’s go, but he never said we were going somewhere together. Maybe I’m just—
“We’re going to dinner,” he answers simply.
I’m relieved by the we but thrown by the rest of it. “Dinner? Why?”
“I’m hungry. And I doubt you’ve eaten yet.”
He’s right, and I’m starving, but we’ve never had dinner together before, even as mere coworkers. “Is that a good idea?” I press, turning to him without slowing my pace. “What if someone sees us together?”
He doesn’t look at me when he responds. “Do you not get dinner with the girls when you’re here?”
“Yeah, but that’s different. We’re actually friends,” I point out. “You and I—”
“Hate each other.”
“I hate you,” I correct, though the hate has dimmed considerably in recent weeks. But I’ll keep that tidbit of information to myself. I don’t need him thinking I like him. In this situation, there are no deeper feelings allowed, even friendship. “People might think it’s strange if we’re out together.”
I swear he rolls his eyes. “No one is going to see us,” he says, resting a hand at the small of my back to help me dodge a group of tourists who refuse to budge from the middle of the sidewalk. “And if they do, who gives a fuck?”
Try as I might to deny it, the man has a point. What does it matter if we’re seen together? If it turns out that an explanation is necessary, I’ll just say it was nothing more than a business dinner on the company’s dime. That’s believable enough.
“Okay, fine,” I tell him. “Take me to dinner.”
A short walk later, we’re seated at a small table in a softly lit but colorfully decorated Cuban restaurant. The place smells incredible, the air thick with warm spices. And there’s a bolero song playing over the speakers, reminding me of the holiday party. To think a dance between us has led to all of this is nearly unbelievable.
“Where did you learn to dance?” I find myself asking as we settle in. It’s something that’s been on my mind for weeks now, and it’s the first thing I’ve said to him since I agreed to join him here, but it feels fitting.
Daniel sets his menu on the table and leans back in his wicker chair. “My grandmother was a dance instructor in Cuba.” He must see the question in my eyes—he’s from Mexico, isn’t he?—and elaborates. “My mother’s family is Cuban. They immigrated to Mexico when she was young.”
Weirdly, I like getting a little peek into his life. It’s one I never expected or even wanted until now. “Did your grandmother keep teaching after that?”
He shakes his head. “Not professionally. But she still choreographs dances for parties and weddings. And, of course, she taught all of her grandchildren.” He glances away and lifts a hand to signal our server, even though I’ve barely had time to look over the menu. “I know you love your gin and tonics, but the mojitos here are great.”
The distraction technique is obvious, but I still warm at the small detail he’s remembered about me. “I’ll have one then.”
Daniel orders for the both of us. I’m taken aback at first, ready to chide him for thinking it’s his right to do so, but then our server smiles and promises it’s their chef’s specialty. I nod, but that doesn’t stop me from side-eyeing Daniel. I’ll let a man make decisions for me only if I’m convinced he knows better than I do, and with this new information, I suppose this is one of those situations.
When the server leaves us, Daniel and I sit back and assess each other.
His expression is unreadable, as always, so when he says, “I thought you didn’t take requests,” I need a moment to wrap my head around the meaning of his words.
Finally, it dawns on me. The lingerie. He asked for red, and I provided. He’s only seen the thong so far, but later—if we ever get there—he’ll see the unlined lace bra as well.
I have no comeback, no clever explanation, so I go with the truth. “I made an exception. And I look good in red.”
There’s a flash of something in his eyes, but it’s gone so quickly that I’m certain I’ve imagined it. “You look good in any color.”
Another compliment. I can still count on one hand how many he’s given me in the years we’ve known each other, but most of them have come over the past few weeks.
“You don’t need to flatter me, you know,” I say. I go for nonchalance, even though the matter-of-fact compliments get to me more than any other type of praise. “I’ll still fuck you without it.”
In other words, I don’t want him to try to charm me. This is supposed to be a purely physical entanglement. Pretty words and overt flirtation will only complicate things. I do expect him to be polite and get me off again tonight, hopefully more than once, but that’s it. It has to be. Otherwise, I worry my feelings toward him will shift even more than they already have. And I’m steadily veering into dangerous territory.
“Good to know,” he murmurs as the server returns with our drinks—a mojito for me and rum rocks for him. “Won’t stop me, though.”
I swirl my drink, watching the mint leaves float through the rum, lime, and soda, wishing I could get a better read on him. What is he going after here? I take a long pull from my straw and will my curiosity to settle.
“I still don’t know why you went after me at the holiday party,” I finally say, knowing I’ll never get this out of my head otherwise. “You knew I hated you. It was a pretty big risk to proposition me, and yet you did anyway. So what was it about me that made you do it? Why me, out of all the other women there?” I level him with a hard stare. “And don’t you dare say you’re not like other girls.”
He sips his drink, then sets it down gently as he meets my gaze full-on. “You’re not like other girls.”
“I’m going to punch you.”
He laughs, fully relaxed in the face of my threats. “You’ll figure it out eventually. What made you put enough of your hate aside to let me taste you?”
Heat surges through me. The man says these things so casually, like it isn’t supposed to immediately conjure up the image of him on his knees in front of me, both in my hotel room and back in the office.
I take another pull from my straw and clear my throat, preparing for more honesty.
“I’ve come to realize that I…don’t dislike you as a person,” I admit, avoiding his eyes. This is huge for me to say, and it already feels terribly embarrassing. God, I should have kept my mouth shut. “But working with you is still a nightmare,” I quickly tack on.
“I don’t fully dislike you as a person either,” he replies. His tone is full of humor as he throws my words back at me. “Would you like me better if we didn’t work together?”
“Infinitely.”
It’s a knee-jerk answer, because truthfully? I would be fonder of him if I wasn’t on the receiving end of his business bullshit all the time. He’s hot as hell, intelligent, well-read in romance, surprisingly funny when he wants to be, capable of getting me off multiple times in a row, and is just cocky enough that I’m still attracted without being put off. He could be my dream man…if we didn’t work together.
But I don’t have any plans to change that. And I’m certain he doesn’t either. So it looks like we’ll be coworkers for the foreseeable future, which means there will always be that undercurrent of distaste between us. Besides, whatever we have going on now will fizzle out soon enough. I’ll just enjoy it while it lasts.
Daniel gives a murmur of acknowledgment and runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “I’d like you better too.”
I roll my eyes. It’s not like I’m the problem in our working relationship. He’s the one who insists on acting like an ass each and every time we interact. I just match his energy because I refuse to let him get away with his usual shit.
Our conversation wanes when our food arrives, though the tension between us remains. It’s ever-present, but there’s nothing awkward about it or our silence.
When our server returns to check on us, Daniel orders two mojitos, forgoing his straight rum. While he was right that I’m usually a gin girl, I’m starting to see the appeal of his favorite spirit the more I drink of it. I know from a quick google search that his favorite brand is upward of four hundred dollars a bottle, which is way out of my price range. But of course, our acquisitions manager can afford it.
By the time the table has been cleared and we’re nursing a third round of drinks, I’m just relaxed enough to bluntly ask him, “Are you coming back to my hotel?”
Daniel looks away and lifts a hand to signal to our server that we’re ready for the check. “What do you think?”
I frown as he slips a card out of his wallet and hands it to the server without bothering to look at the bill. In response to my direct question, I expected a direct answer, but true to form, he can’t even give me that.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He watches me, wearing an expression that looks suspiciously like pity. “You can’t be that oblivious, Selene.”
“You keep saying that about me,” I snap, unable to help myself. “But what the fuck am I missing here?”
Infuriating me further, Daniel chuckles and shakes his head. He drags a hand through his dark curls, then drops his elbow to the back of his chair. He’s completely at ease while I’m coiling for a potential strike. “Yes, I’m coming back with you.”
He doesn’t explain past that. He just thanks the server when the man comes back with his card, tips 30 percent, and then stands, motioning for me to do the same.
I huff and shove my chair away from the table, snatching up my coat at the same time. In my frustration, I struggle to get it on. And like he did at the holiday party, Daniel helps smooth the wool over my shoulders, though this time when he lowers his hand, it lingers on my hip.
I turn back to him, ready to step away, because I’m still annoyed. But when our eyes meet, a bolt of something shoots through me, and it’s not anger.
“You’re not allowed to touch me yet,” I scoldingly murmur, but I don’t knock his hand away. “We’re in public.”
“Then you’re not allowed to look at me like that,” he counters.
“And how exactly am I looking at you?”
“Like you want me to fuck you against the wall in the bathroom.”
I consider it for a second, letting flashes of how hot and fast and rough it could be flit through my mind. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”
Daniel blows out a breath, like he’s trying to keep his composure. Or maybe he’s just fed up with me. “I didn’t think you were like this.”
“Like what?” I ask, though I’m not sure I really want to know the answer.
“Shameless.”
I raise a brow. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”
“The furthest thing from it. Let’s go.”
I almost want to reach for his hand as we leave the restaurant, but by my own rules, I can’t. That doesn’t stop him from brushing his knuckles against mine and stealing glances that make me burn from the inside out.
I can’t help but think about him under the table with his hands on my thighs and his face between them. That action is more flattering than anything he says could ever be—words count for less than actions do, even for a writer.
It takes an eternity to reach the hotel. Inside the elevator, we stand on opposite sides. I could reach out to him now that we’re alone, but I won’t be the one to make the first move, no matter how much I want this.
But Daniel seems intent on making me wait. That said, if I was staring at him like I wanted to fuck him in the bathroom, he’s now looking at me like he wants to hit the emergency stop button and take me right here. Somehow, we maintain a modicum of self-control and keep our hands to ourselves the whole way up.
Without waiting for him, I step out of the elevator and head down the hall to my room. I can feel the impatience rolling off him as I pause to pull out my key card and tap it against the sensor. Daniel steps up behind me, and when the telltale beep of the lock sliding back sounds, he pushes the heavy door open and nudges me inside.
“Fucking finally,” he says, and then his hands are cupping my face and his lips are on mine.
We steal kisses as we shrug out of our coats and drop them to the floor without a care. He lets me push him against the wall and explore the planes of his broad chest. Vaguely, as I catalog every ridge and valley of his abs, I wonder how the fuck this incredibly irritating man can make me want him so badly.
He trails his fingers up from the base of my spine, eliciting a shiver from me. He’s teasing me again, but that’s fine. I want him to make me beg for it. There’s something I need to do first, though.
I push up the hem of his T-shirt, and he helps me yank it over his head. Then it’s falling to the carpet and his hands are curling around my waist, hitching my shirt higher on my torso. I ignore his attempt to remove my clothing and undo his belt, then move to the button of his jeans. I manage to pop it open before he pulls back.
“What are you doing?” he asks, amused.
“I have to reciprocate how kind you were to me at the office,” I murmur, pulling down his zipper and reaching for the waistband of his boxer briefs. I want to feel the weight of him in my hand, to taste him like he’s gotten to taste me. It’s only fair.
Before I can get my hands on him, he wraps his fingers around my wrist. Now when he looks at me, his humor is gone. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“I do want to.” I press up on my toes and brush my lips across his stubbled jaw. “And is this a good time to tell you that I don’t really have a gag reflex?”
His grip on me tightens for a moment before he lets go, like he’s been burned. “Fucking hell, Selene. Do you want me to come in my pants?”
I lick a path up his neck. “I’d rather you come in my mouth.”
“Selene.”
I bat my lashes at him, feigning innocence. “What?”
His gaze is dark and heavy, and with any luck, I’m about to get exactly what I want.
“Get on your knees.”
