Claimed by the Bad Boy
Page 19
Visions of Declan pressing his big hand between her shoulder blades and bending her over the desk flitted through her mind.
Her fingers splayed across the rich cherrywood beneath her palms when she glanced over her shoulder to see him, his face lethally serious, condom package between his teeth, lifting her skirt. He tore her silk panties off with one hand while unbuttoning his fly with the other. When his cock was free, he ripped the square package open, slipped the latex over his rock-hard dick, threw the wrapper to the floor, held onto her hips, and took her hard from behind.
Her brow knitted. Something was off about the image in her head. Different. The tattoo. There hadn’t been a tattoo winding up his muscular arm.
“You know,” Declan said, bringing her attention to the fore. “It’s almost lunchtime, and I was going to grab a bite at the Mexican restaurant around the corner. Want to go?”
“Uh.” She blinked. “I can’t.”
Declan gave her a steely eyed glare. “You can’t, or you don’t want to have lunch with me?”
“I already have lunch plans, so I can’t. But—”
“But what?”
She might have screwed up her life with bad decisions and piss-poor judgment. However, there was one thing she didn’t do.
“I don’t get involved with clients, subcontractors, or anyone in any way associated with this firm,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Involved?” He chuckled. “I wasn’t suggesting we have a nooner, only a few tacos and polite conversation.”
Her cheeks burned hot, and she wondered if she had somehow given herself away. “Nooner?”
“Yeah. A nooner is—”
“I know exactly what a nooner is, Mr. Cage. I don’t require an explanation.” She put her hands on her hips. “I merely thought it was an inappropriate comment to make, given our current surroundings.”
Declan rolled up the blueprints and slid them back into their tube. “Aw, sugar. If I’d known inappropriate comments would get you to finally remember my name, I would have made more of them a whole lot sooner.” He winked. “Have a great day, Ms. Brooks.”
Tiffany gaped, watching him walk out of her boss’s office in long-legged strides, upset with herself for being a whole lot of turned on. She both despised and loved the gruffness of his voice. His sexy scowl. The way he called her “sugar.” His smug confidence and how it seemed to seep from every pore. While all those things and more attracted her to him, she wasn’t going to let herself become obsessed. She was putting her size-five foot down. The man was a rough guy who drove a two-wheeled death machine, for Pete’s sake. He probably guzzled beer, belched loudly, lived in a hovel apartment with empty pizza boxes scattered around, and had a closet filled with those dang jeans he looked so good in.
No. She stomped. Neither those worn Levi’s nor how well he wore them should matter to her. It couldn’t matter. She wouldn’t let him matter. She was in control. Wasn’t she?
“I am,” she said out loud, hoping to convince herself.
But, the truth was, the fever had returned with a vengeance and was lapping at her flesh. Those fiery serpent tongues had been the catalysts to a wild, unbridled event in the dimly lit study of a fancy Denver home a couple of years ago.
Fevers don’t last.
She shook her head. She wouldn’t give into the condition that made her crazy and do stupid things. This would pass. She had no intention of veering away from her plan. She’d promised herself to find and date a better class of men. She needed to break bad habits. Make better choices. Stop being so impetuous. She was looking for sophistication. Someone more upscale. Respectable. A lawyer, doctor, or investment banker would do, and she’d thrown out the bait, hooking one.
Her first casual date with Braxton Worth was happening later, but comparing the two, Braxton and Declan, there was no contest in the appeal department. With his penetrating eyes and hard body, Declan won, hands down. No matter though. She knew better than to daydream about him. Dreaming only led to trouble, and trouble was something she didn’t need.
The bike stirred to life outside. When it revved, the madness seeped in. She closed her eyes and strummed her fingertips along the side of her neck, longing for that feeling of freedom. She imagined pressing her breasts against Declan’s muscular back, knees against his hips, as the bulky bike’s vibration shimmied up her frame, the wind brushing across her skin deliciously when they took to the open road.
Her eyelids fluttered open. She went to the window and peeked out through the mini blinds in time to see him pull out of the parking lot and turn onto Oakdale Street.
Tiffany worked her bottom lip over with her teeth, troubled. Despite the storm of confusion going on inside her body, Declan Cage sorely tempted her to give into the ailment once more, jump on the back of his chopper, and go for one heck of a ride.