I smiled. “I’m going, I’m going.” I straightened my skirt and inspected my blouse. “Should I go home and change first?”
“No, my dear. You’re perfect.” Wise eyes scrutinized me. “Why so nervous?”
I sighed and slumped my shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s not a date. It’s just, I’ve never hung out with him outside of work. You should come with me. Then it would feel less date-y, you know?”
Her laugh warmed my heart and calmed my nerves. “Sorry sister, you’re on your own tonight. I’ve got plans.” She glanced towards Wallace’s door then back to me. “Now, get going so I can lock up and get on with my evening.”
Nan was the only other person Wallace trusted with a key, which meant she arrived before anyone in the morning and couldn’t leave until each of us cleared out. Never once, in my four years at the firm, did I hear her complain about it.
With an exaggerated sigh, I threw my handbag over my shoulder, blew her a kiss and headed out for my non-date.
I managed to make the short drive, traipse across the gravel parking lot, and through the heavy wooden door of the Malted Maven in my stilettos without breaking a bone. All grace left my person the moment I spied Franklin sitting in the corner, suit jacket open, tie gone, top two buttons of his gray shirt undone. My ankles turned to wet noodles and my legs buckled under me. Thank the good Lord above there was a barstool within reach to steady myself.
He’d chosen a table in the darkest corner of the bar with a half-moon, vinyl booth seat. Legs crossed at the ankles, arms stretched across the top of the chair, GQ model if ever I’d seen one. When his eyes met mine, he wasted no time scooting from his perch to meet me where I stood clinging to the barstool like a crutch.
“There’s my girl. I thought you were blowing me off. What took so long?” With the firmness I expected, he grabbed my elbow and walked me to the table.
Oh, busywork, passing time, trying to build courage to meet the sexiest man alive on this non-date. “Nan caught me on my way out. She needed to talk,” I lied. “Sorry I made you wait.” Not the least bit sorry he waited.
Franklin waited, hands in his pockets, urbane as a well-bred English gentleman, while I scooted into the seat, a feat not easily accomplished with the lack of give in my skirt. He slid in and didn’t stop until his thigh rested against mine. Holy hot tamale, nothing but trouble rolled my way. His body heat melted the tension from mere nanoseconds before. I inhaled slow and deep and let the faint scent of lemon-lime, lavender, and orange fill my nostrils. Fresh and clean. He always smelled so damned good.
“Gendarme?” I asked.
His chuckle made my blood pump harder. “It is. How’d you know?”
“It was the only cologne my father wore. Not because it was his favorite, but because it was the only one that didn’t irritate my mother’s allergies.” Dad was my hero. I loved everything about him, the way he smelled, dressed, every wrinkle that graced his face. He spent his life making Mom and me feel cherished.
Franklin held my gaze just to the point of uncomfortable before blinking away and gesturing to the woman behind the bar. “Dark beer, right?”
Damn. The bastard was good. “Yes. The darker the better.”
The waitress bee-lined it toward our table, never taking her eyes off Franklin. Her shiny black hair bounced behind in a high pony, pulled tight, no doubt to show off her numerous ear piercings. When she reached our table, she studied me with a perplexed curiosity. Her black mascara and smudged eyeliner looked like it’d been applied by a professional, specifically to frame a set of deep jade eyes. With her skull and crossbone belt, she rocked the sexy, tough-bitch vibe.
“Hey Frankie, what’ll it be?” she asked. Her perky voice didn’t come close to matching the biker-chic facade.
Franklin pulled a fifty from his pocket and handed it to her. “We’re going dark tonight, love. Surprise us.”
Love? My cheeks warmed and my vision narrowed. Shit. Was I jealous? The barmaid was long and lean, like a yoga master. Not an ounce of fluff anywhere on her over-toned body. I shot flaming daggers at her ass as she walked away.
I turned to face the man sitting next to me. “Frankie?” No way was he a Frankie.
“Nickname. She gives one to all the regulars.” His words traveled through my ears, yet I barely registered what he said. He inspected me, raking the length of my body with a hungry leer like he couldn’t decide which lump to take a bite out of first.
“Oh, you come here often?” I looked around the room. Everything was dark; the wood of the tables and chairs, the carved ornate bar, wrought iron mirrors, sconces, even the paintings hung sparsely about were dismal in color and theme. I liked the ambiance. Was I out of my element? Without a doubt, but I’d stuck to the safe confines of my daily routine for too long. Change was good. Especially when it involved Franklin. “I have to say, Franklin Reed, you don’t strike me as the type who’d frequent a place like this.”
“Why not, Tatum Wood? Please, do tell.” His smirk begged to be kissed. I licked my lips and wondered what he tasted like. Man-oh-man, I hadn’t even started drinking yet. I could tell it was going to be a long night.
“That’s easy. You’re Mister Armani Suit, suave, professional. Not gloom and doom, emo, goth, whatever the bejeezers this place is.”
Small dimples formed at the corners of his mouth. “I live upstairs, and did you just say bejeezers?”
“I did, Frankie.”
Oh. He lived upstairs. Interesting. A hummingbird hatched, then grew in my belly and jetted around, desperate to be set free.
Miss Dark-and-Dangerous came back with our beers. Bubbly suds spilled over the glasses before she even set them down. Franklin made quick work of mopping up the mess. I got busy giving myself a foam mustache. Damn, that was good brew.
“Hey, wait,” Franklin admonished me. “Toast, first.” Fisting his mug, he raised his drink and tapped mine, halting my attempt at a second swig. “Here’s to a week without the narcissistic asshole.”
“Here’s to a week without having to verbally stroke his cock.” I raised my glass higher before returning it to my lips.
Franklin spit his drink and slammed the glass down. “Oh, my God.”
In response to his smile, mixed with that deep, throaty laugh, my internal temperature spiked, melting the layers of ice that had claimed my unmentionables years ago.
I stared at him a little too long. A new growth of stubble dusted his square jaw and almost hid his understated cleft chin. Holy moly, those eyes. Deep, unnatural blue. An eye color you would see in an anime movie. Even with his playful expression, they glistened with wisdom and sincerity. I had to be careful, or if I peered into those eyes long enough, my loins would burst into flames.
His forehead held a few wrinkles, forged not by age, but the intense gaze he wore most of the time. I often caught him at his desk, lost in deep concentration. God, I hoped he didn’t have a clue how many hours I wasted observing him.
He downed the brewski in three gulps and gestured for two more. “You’re such a funny girl. That’s what I love about you.” His leg bounced incessantly against mine. Was he nervous?
Wait, what? That’s what he loved about me? I was speechless, which was a rare occurrence, and pretended to study a painting on the wall.
Awkward?
Nah.
Chapter 3
Before long, it was nine, then nine-thirty. I’d demolished three beers, a plate of fries, two pieces of gum, taken four trips to the little girls’ room, and I didn’t want the night to end.
Franklin Reed proved as mesmerizing to talk to as he was to look at. We made fun of the goofballs in the bar and joked about the losers at work, mostly Wallace. Movies, check. Favorite music, check. There wasn’t a breath of down time. Best part? The whole night, we laughed.
We got along great on the job, but who knew he’d be so easy to hang with outside the nine-to-five? At quarter to ten, “Ain’t No Rest For The
Wicked” bellowed from his shirt pocket. Retrieving his phone, he pushed a button, then tucked it away. With a proud smile, he winked at me, grabbed my hand, and led me out the front door.
“Come with me. Here, take your shoes off.” Lowering himself to one knee, he rubbed his hand up the length of my calf and prompted me to lift my leg. Inciting goose bumps from hip to ankles, he slid the torture devices off my aching feet. Holy shit, it was sexy.
He rested his hands on my waist and stood. “I’d give you a piggy-back, but you’d have to hike that damn skirt all the way up your waist.” Something dark and promising flickered in his eyes.
Behind the old brick building, a rickety set of stairs stretched to the third floor. “Where are we going?” I asked. I secretly hoped it wasn’t up, but it was.
It took him a moment to dig his keys from his pocket and get the door open.
I’d never been to Franklin’s apartment. Hadn’t entertained the idea either, assuming it’d be spotless, like his desk, and frequented by supermodels. At the office, he kept everything neat and tidy, perfectly organized, nothing out of place, nothing personal on display. When we entered the apartment, I was dumbfounded. It was bare. No pictures or furniture, save a leather couch and a fifty-inch flat screen. Brick walls, wood floors, stainless steel appliances in the tiny kitchen tucked in the corner. Other than that, empty.
“Dude. Where’s all your stuff?” I asked, surveying the small space.
He smiled and tossed his keys onto the bar-top partition that separated the dining room from the living room. He walked to the other side and carried two barstools around the corner.
“Don’t need much. A place to eat, a place to watch the tube.” He grabbed a remote from the counter and the television buzzed to life. “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to the couch before disappearing. “I’ll be right back.”
I did as told and nestled into the buttery soft leather, tucking my legs under myself. The voice coming from the jumbo box hanging on his wall announced the Banshee season finale was coming up next. I laughed. Damn, the man was good.
He returned wearing faded jeans that hung low on his waist and a gray, trim-fitted Henley that opened to a deep V at the collar, revealing a sneak peak of bare chest. I wanted to jump his bones. Seriously, I did. I wasn’t a slut or anything, but with the beer in my gut, the electricity in his eyes, and the shirt that clung like plastic wrap to his skin, I feared I could easily become one.
Franklin plopped his glorious ass on the cushion, leaving less than an inch between us. Tremors pulsed through my lower abdomen. What was he doing? What the hell was I doing? I should’ve never come to his apartment. Should’ve stopped at one beer and gone home. It was way too close for colleagues to sit together. Way too close.
“Franklin, I should head ho—”
He pinched my lips together with his thumb and forefinger. “Shush. It’s starting. You’re not allowed to talk for the next sixty minutes, got it?” He freed my lips and I started to protest until he flashed me a don’t-you-dare scowl.
“Relax and enjoy, Tate.” He leaned back, extended his legs in front of him and stretched his arms wide before clasping his hands behind his head.
I couldn’t pay attention to the ex-con-turned-small-town-sheriff on the big screen. It took serious concentration to keep my breaths steady, my heart rate normal, my hands to myself. Franklin was too warm and all-consuming next to me. So close, so male. My skin tingled with the need to either jump him or get the heck out of there.
The first commercial in, on his trot to the refrigerator, Franklin blessed me with a long hard gander at his round firm rear. I’d caught a glimpse or two, or three thousand, of his ass at work. How could I not? The way he filled out his slacks was nothing short of divine, but holy freaking cow, what he did to a pair of jeans—downright illicit. I couldn’t peel my eyes away. It was just—bam—there, accented by the slight curve of his small waist that spread into broad, muscled shoulders. He glanced at me before disappearing behind the wall.
Oops, busted.
I’m pretty sure he smirked, but the light was dim and I was buzzed, so I couldn’t be certain.
He returned with two glasses of ice water and placed them on the floor between us. I squealed when he sat down and grabbed my legs from under me, placing them over his own.
“Were you staring at my ass, Tate?” he asked, voice huskier than normal.
Gulp. “Yes.” Why lie? I couldn’t find the courage to look at him.
With strong sure hands, Franklin massaged my left foot.
“Why?” he asked, leaning toward me.
Why? What did he mean, why? Because it was effin’ perfect. Because I wanted to peel his jeans off and unwrap that derriere like a Christmas present. Rub it, hold it, leave claw marks. Gnaw on it like a piece of jerky. I found my voice again, along with the courage to meet him square in the eye. “You have a smoking hot ass, Mr. Reed. It begs to be ogled.”
“You’re blushing,” he half whispered, half moaned.
If he’d intended to ruffle my feathers, it worked. Lucky for me, enough liquid courage remained in my belly and flowed through my veins to meet his challenge head-on.
I shifted and wiggled my toes. “As a matter of fact, Frankie, I check out your rump at least three hundred and twenty-five times a day. I’d appreciate it if you’d stop wearing your suit jacket at work. It covers that fine tush of yours, and when it’s hidden, it puts me in a foul mood.”
That something, dark and promising, flashed in his eyes again. A new wave of heat landed on my cheeks. He laughed and turned toward me, propping one knee on the couch. “Is that so, Miss Wood? I happen to appreciate your ass on a regular basis as well. This skirt you’re wearing now is by far my favorite. Hugs those curves of yours perfectly. Made me drool on more than one occasion.”
Oh, he was good. I should have stopped there. We worked together. Nothing about this conversation was appropriate for coworkers.
My unruly mouth and I continued, “If I could, I’d frame your ass and hang it on my wall.”
Shut up, Tate. Shut up.
I threw a challenging smile his way but lost my gumption when his warm hands slid up my leg and rested just below my knee. No longer massaging, he trailed lazy fingers over my skin, up and down, back and forth. He held my gaze, stopping time and space with the smolder in his eyes.
“Tate.” His voice deepened. “Someday, very soon, I will hang you on my wall, but not in a frame.” With that, he leaned forward, straddled my legs and kissed the holy living heck out of me, shutting me up real fast.
Oh, I’d been kissed before. Not often, but that didn’t matter anymore. No way in hell would I remember any previous smooches after Franklin Reed’s assault on my lips. It wasn’t slow and romantic. It definitely wasn’t awkward or stymied by shyness. It was a full on, you’re mine, I’m gonna eat you alive kind of kiss.
I melted. I liquefied beneath him, and with one swift move, his heavy body covered me from chest to knees. His arousal was evident, like a steel rod between us. If it weren’t for the damned pencil skirt, my legs would have opened for him. They tried. Lordy, Lordy, they tried. Poor babies didn’t have any room to move.
He released me for a brief moment. “You taste better than I imagined,” he moaned, breathless and husky. I nearly shattered to pieces beneath him and groped the very thing that started the romp—his ass. It was every bit as glorious beneath my fingers as it was on the eyes. Rock hard, round and flexing with every roll of his hips against me.
He nuzzled my breasts and then, with agile fingers, unhooked the buttons on my blouse. Panic stole my breath when he tugged the cups of my bra and freed me from its binds. As if sensing my trepidation he slid a hand under my chin and tilted my face to meet his. “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.”
His lips commanded mine, giving and taking, prompting me to move just the way he wanted. I committed to memory the sounds he produced while he trailed kis
ses along my neck, nipped at my chest, pulled my nipple between his teeth. When his tongue brushed across the hypersensitive flesh, I lost my bearings and grabbed his head, pulling him against my bosom. He licked, sucked, and nibbled, and I bit my bottom lip to keep from screaming. Holy shit, I’d never known such pleasure, never felt so alive. I was out of my mind already. If this went any further, if I gave in to this need, I’d fall hard and never recover.
Franklin’s phone vibrated against my thigh nanoseconds before it announced a caller with “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak. With a final flick of his tongue across my hardened nipple, he cussed and pushed himself off me, dug his phone out of his pocket, and disappeared around the corner. I righted my bra and scooted upright to button my blouse. It took several deep breaths to clear my head.
God, what was I thinking coming to his apartment? How could I face him at work? I needed to make a clean getaway. If our make-out session continued, I wouldn’t have the strength to say no. How could any woman say no to that man?
I tiptoed on rubber legs across the shiny wood floor and grabbed my shoes. Whispers that sounded heated and angry carried through the hall. Praying for well-oiled door hinges, I slowly made my escape. I scuttled down the stairs and back around the corner of the building, ignoring the rocks that dug into my bare feet. It wasn’t until I pulled out of the parking lot that I remembered to breathe. Through my rearview mirror, I watched him skid around the corner and rub the top of his head.
* * * *
Okay. Maybe my exit was a bit overdramatic, but I needed distance. Not mere miles, more like a state or two. Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected someone like Franklin to be attracted to me, let alone have fantasized a scene like the one we’d just acted out.
One-Date Tate.
Was it the alcohol? He seemed into me from the second I entered the bar. Or was that my imagination? The past few months, we’d teased and flirted at work. According to Nan, I was the only woman in the building he paid attention to. We’d never crossed the line, though. At least, it didn’t seem that way. Then again, what did I know?
How to Kill Your Boss Page 2
