Authors: Alexa Kaye
Then he shifts his car into drive and steers into the nearest parking space. I try to ignore him as I dig in my purse for my cellphone. At least Butthead bought me an auto club membership. The towing will be free.
As far as affording the repairs, though...
“Need some help?” Colbe's (hot, obnoxious) friend asks as he saunters up, all knotted up in a (well-fitting) suit, perfectly-pressed white shirt, and tie.
“No.” I wave a hand, indicating his clothes. “Wouldn't want you to get your nice suit all dirty. Besides, there's no reason to make you late too.”
“Eh, the boss won't mind.” He shucks his jacket, and, as I try not to watch, memories of last night play through my head like a freaking movie. The button down shirt he's wearing underneath is fitted but not snug. Still, I can make out the broad line of those shoulders and the thick bulk of his biceps. The man is ripped.
“Must be nice,” I say. “My boss is an ass. Gives me grief if I'm even a minute late.”
“Is that so?” He points to the driver's seat. “Climb in, shift out of park, and steer.” Once I do as he says, he circles to the rear of the car and starts pushing it.
It rolls forward.
I'm impressed. I have no idea how hard it is for a grown man to push a car by himself, but this one is doing it easily. He's either really strong, or my car's made out of plastic or something. After I steer into the closest parking spot and shift it back into park, he walks around to the front of my car and flips his hand.
I poke my head out the window. “Thanks for pushing me. But you don't really want me to open the hood, do you?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Because you're wearing a white shirt,” I remind him as I climb out. “Besides, I don't see any tools. What're you going to do without any tools?”
“I'm going to see if I can get your car started.”
“No, you're not.” I lift my phone. “I was about to call the auto club. I can get it towed.”
He rolls up a sleeve, displaying a muscled forearm. “Let me see what I can do first.”
“But--”
“Please,” he says with a not-so-pleading voice as he rolls up the other sleeve.
I let him know with my face that I'm not happy about what he's doing. I don't like owing people for favors. But I reach into the car and pull the hood release.
He lifts it and takes a look around. “Hmmm.”
“See anything?” I ask, thinking maybe, by some miracle, I'll be able to avoid an expensive repair after all.
He pulls on a little hooked thingy, the oil dipstick. He inspects it. “When was the last time you had an oil change?”
I don't like where this is going.
I don't know much about cars. But even I know that oil is important. Clean oil.
Lots
of clean oil. Which is why Jerkhead changed my oil every three months. “About a week ago. Why?”
“Was your oil light on?” he asks, shoving the dipstick back into its little tube-thing.
Oh no...
“Yes. It's been stuck on for ages. Since I bought the car...why?”
“Do you have a rag or paper towel or something?” He pulls the dipstick out again.
“I probably have a paper napkin...” I open the little console between the front seats and dig out a McDonald's napkin. I hand it to him.
He wipes the dipstick, slides it back into place then pulls it back out a third time.
All this in and out stuff... As I watch, my mind goes to a dirty, dirty place. And we're not talking about motor-oil-type dirty.
When did I become such a nympho?
My face goes hot. So do some other parts.
“Was your car making any noises before it stalled?” He inspects the dipstick. “You have no oil.”
The heat swirling through my body immediately evaporates. “No oil? What? How?!” Noise? He'd asked me if my car had been making any noises. But I don't know. I had the radio blaring. I hadn't heard a thing, outside of my fave band.
Maybe if I had, I would have shut down the car before...
Please, please tell me my car isn't dead.
Before...
Tell me it isn't what I think it is.
“The engine's dry,” he tells me, confirming my worst fear. “Probably seized up. You'll need a new motor.”
My knees give out and I have to latch onto the car to keep from falling to the ground.
New.
Motor.
Little stars glitter in my vision.
I don't have money for a new motor.
“Hey, are you all right?” he asks. Strong arms sweep me off my feet and cradle me. I can't see a damn thing now. All I see are twinkling stars. I feel him carrying me. He's speaking, but his voice sounds funny. Distant.
My car.
It's dead.
No money.
Fuck!
I can't take any more. I want to curl up in a corner and hide from the world.
I blink and try to clear my vision. The stars are still obscuring most of it, but I can see we're going into the building.
The receptionist at the front desk greets the man carrying me. “Sir! What's the matter? Should I call 9-1-1?”
“No.” He stops at the elevator and hits the button with his elbow. “I'm sure Miss...Miss...?”
“Stapley,” I say. “Jordan Stapley.”
“Miss Stapley will be all right in a minute.”
The elevator door rumbles open and in we go. On the way up my vision clears completely. Adrenaline starts pounding through my body.
“I can stand now,” I tell him, wriggling.
“Just wait until I can get you in a chair.”
“Where are you taking me?” I look up at the numbers glowing above the elevator's door. The five glows. That's my floor.
The elevator doesn't stop.
Six.
“My office,” he tells me.
Seven.
Eight.
How high up the food chain is this guy?
Nine.
Holy shit!
Ten. Top floor.
The doors roll open and he steps into a wide, open space. A receptionist jumps from her seat and scurries up to us. “Mr. Parker, what happened? Can I get you anything?”
Mr.
Parker
?
Did she just say
Mr. Parker
?
Grayson Parker?
As in, the owner of Parker Enterprises?
Now I'm in shock all over again.
Holy shit! I flipped Grayson Parker the bird!
“No. Thank you,” he says.
Mr. Parker, the owner of Parker Enterprises—the boss of my boss—passes through a set of double doors into the biggest office I've ever seen.
From the looks of it, his office takes up almost the whole freaking floor. Two sides—two!—boast floor-to-ceiling windows. On one end sits a massive wooden desk. At the opposite end is a seating area with two couches and several chairs. He unloads me into one of the chairs, kneeling after he sets me down.
The bluest eyes I've ever seen search mine. “What can I get you? Water?” Before I can answer, he hops up, goes to the cabinet nearby and opens a door. It's a refrigerator, not a cabinet. He pours some cold water into a glass he collects from the cabinet next to it.
“It's okay. No need to make a fuss. I was just a little...overwhelmed.” My face burns again.
I'm so freaking embarrassed. I can't believe I've been such a bitch. I gave him an obscene gesture.
And, ohmygod, I tried to hit him yesterday!
Because he had a hard on.
He got a hard on hugging
me
.
That means the owner of Parker Enterprises...felt...?
No. Couldn't be. It was probably just a physical reaction. It didn't mean anything.
He's rich. Powerful.
He must be married. Or at least in a serious relationship.
“Here.” He hands me the glass, and the tips of our fingers brush. A little current of electricity zaps up my arm.
That doesn't mean anything either.
Right?
My face gets hotter. It has to be the color of a freaking tomato. The curse of a red-head.
“Your color's back,” he says, lips curving into a lopsided smile.
That smile makes my heart go pitter-pat.
Stop it. He's just a man. And men are jerks. Remember?
This jerk carried me across a parking lot, up a ten-floor elevator ride, and into his office.
This jerk got me water.
I sip. Cold water. Delicious water.
And he actually seems to care that I'm freaking out.
He doesn't care, though. He couldn't. Why should he? I'm just a lowly administrator.
He's most likely just trying to avoid a lawsuit or something.
“I should probably get to work. I don't want to get fired for being late.” I give him a little smile at the half-joke, stand, and hand him the glass.
Again, our fingers touch. For a fraction of a second.
And (again) electricity buzzes through me.
His eyes meet mine.
His hand, the one not holding the glass lifts. It cups the back of my head.
What's happening?
Our gazes lock.
Time stands still.
My heart pounds.
What the fuck is happening?
His head lowers. A fraction of an inch at a time.
Lower.
Is he going to...?
Lower still.
Holy shit!
“Kiss me,” he whispers right before his mouth seals over mine.
A huge, and I mean really-freaking-massive tidal wave, of lust crashes through my body. My knees buckle and I loop my arms around his neck and hold on.
His lips are soft. The kiss a slow, delicious seduction.
I am freaking lost.
Holy hell, I didn't know a kiss could be so mind-blowing.
Dickhead's sure weren't. Who knew he'd been doing something wrong? Not me!
God, am I glad now that I didn't marry him. To think what I might have missed. Like this kiss.
Grayson Parker's tongue traces the seam of my mouth, and I open, letting him in. As it caresses mine, my insides quiver and throb. Hot blood pounds through my veins. Rushes to my core.
My insides clench.
What am I doing?
Wanting,
needing
to get closer, I smash my body against his. The pressure feels great. My breasts are flattened against his big, hard body. My nipples are uber-sensitive. So is the rest of my body. Every freaking inch!
I shouldn't be doing this. I should push him away.
Should...
His hands grasp me at the waist and I find myself walked backward until my ass hits something hard. Then up I go, lifted by the strongest man in the world. I'm plopped on the desk and a knee wedges between my thighs.
Holy crap, I'm going to die.
His tongue does things I didn't know tongues could do. It conquers. It claims. It makes my brains turn to mush and my blood simmer.
You have to stop this. Now. Right now.
I hook my fingers, clawing at his shoulders and kiss him back.
The heavy husk of our labored breaths fill the room.
I whimper. It's all too much. And yet it isn't enough. I want to be bare. I want skin against skin. I want something big and hard driving deep inside me.
But I can't have any of that.
Not now. Not here!
Not with my boss!
One of his hands goes on a little excursion, traveling north to the side of my breast. I whimper again when he cups it, weighs the tender fullness. I am going to die if this keeps up.
No. I'm going to die if he stops!
More. I need more.
Moremoremore.
But he's my boss!
I claw at my skirt, sliding it up to my hips so my thighs aren't pinned so close together. I want them open. So I can grind my burning pussy against his knee.
Or so he can touch me there.
Or so he can drive his big, hard cock inside me.
Ohmygod, I can't believe I'm doing this.
He is big. BIG. My hands go wandering too. Down to the lump in his pants. It feels like his cock is at least twelve inches long. And thick.
I've never...I was waiting for marriage to have sex. So I have no idea how that would work, how something that huge would fit inside a girl so small. But I have a feeling I'm going to find out. Soon.
The sooner the better.
But, dammit, he's my boss!
And I don't do this kind of thing! I'm a good girl!
Who am I kidding?
I rub his erection through his clothes and a deep, rumbling growl echoes in our joined mouths.