Baby for the Bosshole Page 11

  “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  I will indeed. Anything for a man who drives me in a dragon of a car. “Ever since I started working in finance, I haven’t been able to find an investment-grade date.” That explains why the sex I had with Emmett was so good. If nothing else, his dick is triple-A.

  “What are you talking about? You’ve been dating awful lot.”

  Is he judging me? He sounds mildly annoyed, but how dare he. He dates a lot, too! “Not really. Those were, you know, test drives. And they were all lemons. Not the kind you can put in a nice lemon bar dessert, but junk lemons. Sasha’s right. She says most men are junk bonds.”

  A beat of silence. “What does that even mean?”

  “It’s a rating system. You should know. You’re in finance!”

  He gives me a look. “I know the system. I just have no idea how she would apply it to men. Not that I really care.”

  “Well, you should.”

  “Why? Sasha’s opinions don’t mean anything to me.”

  “Noo, the rating system,” I say, quite annoyed that Emmett’s being obtuse. If he keeps this up, he might get downgraded to junk. “Anyway, do you know lemons have inferior engines?”

  “Lemons have engines?”

  “Of course! Just because they’re crappy, defective cars, that doesn’t mean manufacturers can sell engineless cars!”

  “Ah. Those lemons.”

  “Try to keep up. Anyway, I take them out for a test drive, and their engines die.”

  “How is that possible?” He pulls over and stops. “Your mouth alone could revive any dead engine.”

  I have no idea why he thinks my mouth has anything to do with ignition, but then, Emmett always sees something I don’t. That’s why he’s a billionaire and I’m still paying off my student loans. “They’re probably zombie engines.”

  Emmett gets out of the car, then walks around and opens the door for me. I realize that he’s parked the car and we’re in front of my apartment building. When did that happen?

  “While you were talking,” Emmett says.

  “You need to stop doing that. It’s getting creepy.”

  “Just part of my hot boss magic. Come on.” He holds out a hand.

  I debate a little about the wisdom of taking it because he’s swaying again. Well… I guess he needs me to help keep him upright. The things I do for my boss.

  I put my hand in his. The feel of skin on skin sends shivers up my arm. Despite the cool evening air, I start to feel hot. My heart beats quicker. Is my body recalling the sex from last night? Wanting to try a little bent-over-a-desk to see if it’s as good as in the dream?

  Please, don’t. I don’t need that right now. Not when Emmett’s here.

  I take a deep breath and heave myself out of the car, then smile like everything’s great. “Thanks. By the way, are you okay to drive?” I say, belatedly realizing that he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel any more than me.

  “I’m fine. Totally sober.”

  Yeah, right. Let’s see you count backward from one hundred! For some reason the idea is hilarious, and I start laughing.

  “Are you okay?” he says.

  He’s being irresponsible. Must be that man pride. A frat boy from my undergraduate econ class totaled his car after a party once. Apparently he insisted on driving, despite everyone’s objections that he was drunk. He was lucky that the only thing that perished was his Mustang—he hit a tree, and the tree survived—but Emmett might not be so lucky.

  I don’t want anything to happen to Emmett.

  “I think you should come in,” I say.

  “Uh… Are you sure?”

  I try to nod, but the attempt makes my head hurt. It was that encounter with Rick. He could give anyone a headache. I decide I should be specific about what I’m offering here so Emmett doesn’t think I’m begging for more sex. Because I’m not. Wanting another great orgasm isn’t begging it specifically from him.

  “I’ll make you some coffee.” That should help him feel better. “Give you some water, too. Think I drank all yours.” I gesture at the empty bottle, which is lying sadly in the pretty car. “Actually, lemme get that.” I start to twist and bend.

  “No, no, no, it’s fine. I’ll get it later.” Strong hands close around my shoulders and haul me back upright. “Let’s just get you to your door.”

  “What’s the lush?”

  “You mean who’s the lush? That would be you at the moment.”

  “No, the rush.”

  “Don’t want you to get sick.”

  He transfers his hands, one to my upper arm and the other around my waist, pulling me close and supporting me. His muscles are hard. He must work out, although when would he find the time? But the easy strength I’m feeling didn’t come from sitting around in an executive chair all day.

  “Not gonna get sick,” I declare. “I’m fabulous. But you can walk me to my door, heh heh heh.”

  Not because I need help, but this way he can’t drive to his place under the influence. Suddenly we’re in front of the elevator. And it’s there! So we step inside together.

  “What floor?” Emmett asks.

  “Seven,” I say. “Very lucky. Just lemme…”

  Somehow my finger keeps missing the button. Emmett reaches past me and pushes it.

  As the car takes us up, I remember what Sasha said about men paying women with sex. I said I liked Thor, but…

  Yeah, Emmett…

  If he offers me his body, is it like a retention bonus? To make sure I stay beyond the two-year mark?

  “Are you going to quit?” Emmett asks suddenly.

  Whaaat? Is he really reading my mind? Actually, he might’ve heard something from headhunters. He’s tight with some of them. Well, everyone is tight with headhunters. Have to be, in this business. But that doesn’t make any sense because I told all my headhunters to be discreet, and they’re generally good about that sort of thing.

  This is confusing. Wonder if he read my thought about the “retention bonus”…?

  If he did, and he offers…should I go for it?

  A wild and uninhibited voice inside me screams, “Yes!” And to be honest, I’m curious about whether Emmett was so amazing last night in the office because I wasn’t myself. I’m slightly drunk at the moment, okay, but not too drunk to realize what Sasha said this morning is correct. There is this crazy, uncontrollable thing between me and Emmett. I just don’t know what I’m going to do about it, and the indecision is killing me. I like to make a firm plan and stick to it.

  The moment the door opens onto the seventh floor, we spill into the hallway. I lead him to my unit at the end—seven-oh-seven. I unlock the door and turn around in what I’m sure is an extremely seductive manner. “Come on in, the coffee’s fine. A-hahaha.”

  “Uh-huh. You sure you want this?” Emmett’s eyes search mine.

  He’s standing so close, his body emitting so much delicious heat. He smells good, all male and a hint of the whiskey he had at the bar. I want to lean closer and bury my nose against his chest, feel his heart beat against my cheek.

  “Don’t know, do ya?” Actually, I want to know if he’s going to taste like the whiskey. Or something else.

  He sighs and shakes his head. “I’m going to regret this.”

  I grin. It’s funny he thinks that. I think so, too!

  He cups my face. “You’re entirely too drunk, but I want to kiss you.”

  “I’m not,” I say. My logical side whispers that something about the current situation—Emmett cradling my cheeks like I’m something precious and desirable—is wrong. His mouth is so close. It’s full and soft, and looks unbelievably yummy.

  So I kick away my logic for the second night in a row.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emmett

  As predicted, I regret the moment I said, “I want to kiss you.” Not because I don’t want to kiss Amy—I do. But because she’s drunk. Utterly, adorably drunk.

  And no matter how much I want her, I simply can’t take advantage when she can barely stand straight.

  Still, I don’t mind being with her, indulging her drunk chatter. The more she drinks, the more she verbalizes her internal monologue. After her fourth cosmopolitan, she started saying basically everything that popped into her head.

  So I know she thinks I’m hot. She also said I’m an asshole, but that isn’t important. The key is focusing on the right things, because that’s how dynasties are built.

  Of course, I also noticed how she said something about quitting soon, but then suddenly she’s all over me and her mouth is on mine.

  Jesus. She tastes sweet, like all the cocktails she had. More important, she feels like all the hot fantasies that have been monopolizing my mind since the moment I laid eyes on her.

  Her tongue flicks my lips. All the blood in my body seems to rush to my dick. Need thrums in my gut, ready to spin out of control.

  She fists her hands in my shirt. All I have to do is take what she’s offering. And it’d be so easy: just ignore that she’s drunk and I’m sober.

  Screw it. She wants it. You want it.

  But that just wouldn’t…

  It takes more willpower than I thought I possessed, but I manage to pull away from her. She looks up, confusion clouding her glazed blue eyes.

  “Our second time shouldn’t be like this.” My voice is rough. “When we do it again, you’ll be sober and begging for it.” And definitely not pulling a Cinderella at midnight and running like hell.

  “Oh, come on. I’m not drunk.” She sways slightly.

  “You just don’t sound drunk because you aren’t slurring.”

  But there’s no point in arguing. I turn her around so she can’t kiss me again, not trusting myself to resist a second time. My dick’s so hard it hurts. Resting my hands on her shoulders, I guide her gently into her apartment.

  “Are you leaving?” She sounds a little whiny, like a child deprived of her favorite teddy bear.

  “I really can’t stay.” I’m going to do something stupid if I do. I refuse to fuck this up and take advantage when she’s too intoxicated to consent.

  “But I don’t want to be alone. And you shouldn’t be driving tonight anyway.”

  “How come?”

  “You’re in no condition.”

  I think about saying that even my dick isn’t quite large enough to interfere with a steering wheel. But I don’t. “Uh, I drove us here.”

  “You did…?” She frowns. “When?”

  “Never mind. My…condition is fine.”

  “You’ll get into an accident.” She points to a door. “That’s my room.” She takes a stumbling step toward it in her heels.

  Damn it, she’s going to fall and crack her head open. I step forward and escort her to her room. She opens the door and flips the light switch. I should turn around and go, but I can’t resist the urge to peek into her private space. Her desk at work is utilitarian and clean. Nothing personal on it except a picture of someone I presume is her father—given the pronounced family resemblance—and a desktop calendar.

  The room is modestly large. A queen-size bed sits flush against a wall with windows. Her sheets are pale cream with a small yellow flower print, feminine and charming. A small brown stuffed bear sits on one corner of the bed. Probably not a gift from her boyfriend because it’s too old. The bear is wearing a shiny silver samurai helmet with a red Japanese character and a fierce Asian mythological beast, but the goofy smile on the bear’s face makes it look harmless.

  There’s a plush armchair with a magenta cardigan draped over the back. A tiny vanity with some cosmetics strewn on top. A framed photo of her and her dad in a garden, both of them grinning.

  The room is cozy, warm and smells like citrus. I like it, and for some odd reason find it comforting. Like home.

  “Stay over there. I’m just going to wipe this gunk off my face.” She tries to indicate her face but doesn’t get much past her neck. “So annoying.”

  “What is?”

  “Nobody’s come up with makeup that auto-cleans off your face. Like, when you’re ready to go to bed.” She tries to snap her fingers. “Hey, you think we could come up with that?”

  “Uh, it’s not—”

  “We’re in venture capital. Bet we can make a fortune. Actually, you can make a fortune because you have the money.”

  She continues to totter on her heels. She’s definitely going to trip and fall. I go down to one knee, place her hand on my shoulder so she won’t overbalance and pull the stilettos off her feet.

  I’ve never had any real opinion about a woman’s feet before. Feet are just appendages designed to help people walk, nothing special. But Amy’s are somehow fascinating. They’re narrow, with cute little toes.

  Maybe I’m developing a foot fetish. An Amy foot fetish.

  Ah, fuck me.

  “Thanks. I tried to slip them off earlier, but couldn’t.” Amy lowers her voice to a whisper. “They’re very stubborn shoes.”

  I stand up. “It’ll be our secret.”

  “Did you know Prince Charming put shoes on Cinderella?”

  “Well, one shoe, anyway.”

  “But you did the opposite,” she says. “Took my shoes off. Does this mean I’m supposed to vanish at midnight?” She frowns a little. “But where would I go? It’s my home.”

  “It is. So you shouldn’t go anywhere.”

  “Are you going to disappear instead?”

  “No. Unlike you, I don’t run when I’m uncomfortable. Also, there wouldn’t be any point. You already know who I am.”

  Her eyes go wide and she wags a finger at me. “That’s true.” Then she weaves her way into the bathroom, swaying like a tree in a storm. Cursing under my breath, I follow her in. Bathrooms can be dangerous. All kinds of hard edges to slip and smack your head against. The vanity, a mirror, the toilet, the edge of the tub…

  She plucks a sheet from a packet of wipes and runs it over her face. Then she reaches under her shirt and somehow manages to get her bra off by pulling it through the armholes. She flings it into a laundry basket in the corner and lets out a sigh. “Freedom…”

  All my brain registers is that she’s braless underneath her top. Actually, my dick registers it first because more blood’s pooling there than up above.

  She starts taking off her shirt. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just take the top off first, then the bra…? Not that I get very far with that line of thought. Because holy fucking shit, Amy’s topless!

  Oblivious, she shimmies out of her skirt. But it isn’t some sexy, seductive move. She’s just taking it off. I really should leave now… But then her feet get caught trying to kick the skirt off and she starts to overbalance—

  I step forward and catch her before she slams a knee against the toilet seat. She wraps her arms around me, her naked breasts crushed against my chest.

  Her nipples poke me. A fire that starts from the touch blazes down to my dick.

  This is both hot and frustrating as hell. I’m seeing more of her body now than I did yesterday when she was riding me.

  “Hey, Emmett.” She smiles, her eyes glazing over as residual alcohol is about to drown what little awareness she has remaining. “You haven’t left.”

  “Not yet.” Revenge. It has to be. And all because she’s in a snit over the Excel training from Friday.

  She nods—or tries to. Then she disentangles herself from my support, stumbles out of the bathroom and collapses onto her bed. The good thing: her position hides her tits from my view. The bad thing: it’s showcasing that ass, which happens to be jackknifed fetchingly over the edge of the mattress.

  She said she wanted you. That’s consent.

  I put a hand over my eyes. No, no, no…

  I go over, grab her around the waist and lift her completely onto the mattress, then tuck her in firmly. She doesn’t resist. Actually, she’s trying to cooperate. Maybe she’s remembering that I write her performance evaluations.

  As I start to pull away, she takes my hand. I freeze.

  “Can you not go?” she whispers, her eyes nearly closed.

  When I don’t say anything—I can’t because I’m fighting a hellish internal battle against my baser desires—she tugs a little harder. “Juss stay till I fall asleep.”

  The words are barely audible. Her mouth is set in a soft line, all vulnerable and sweet.

  Just kill me now.

  Sighing, I park my butt on the mattress next to her and try to think of new and creative ways to make money off credit default swaps.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amy

  My head feels like a million angry toddlers are pounding on my skull with spoons. Ugh. Why do I feel so awful?

  I try to open my eyes but instantly give up. It’s way too bright. Didn’t I close the curtains before going to sleep…?

  “Amy? You awake?”

  Huh. Why am I hearing Emmett’s voice? Must be dreaming…

  “Some aspirin might make you feel better.”

  I open one eye a crack, just enough to get a blurry image. I squint, trying to focus…

  Holy shit. Emmett Lasker. In the flesh. Leaning forward in my armchair and holding out a bottle of water and a couple of aspirin.

  And that’s not all. He’s wearing a new shirt and shorts, which means he must’ve gone home—or something—because I don’t have anything a guy can wear. But at the same time, I’m getting this sinking feeling he hasn’t gone anywhere. His hair is damp, like he just took a shower, and he’s looking extremely relaxed and at home in that chair.

  I slowly—very slowly—look around. We’re definitely in my room. With Okumasama next to me, his head still covered by the samurai helmet I bought way back when, just for him.

  I turn to look at Emmett and do my best to remember what happened yesterday after that embarrassing confrontation with Rick. It’s surprisingly hard to dredge up. Emmett bought me drinks… I sort of got tipsy… And then…

  And then…

  Nothing. It’s like somebody blew up that part of my memory. More likely it’s buried, lost in the pounding in my head.

  “How…?” I start, then stop, trying to figure out which topic is least embarrassing. “You changed clothes.”