“Hmm? Oh, I don’t have a spirit animal.”
She laughs. “No, I mean the romance thing. You’ve pretty much nailed the career portion of your life.” I look over at her, wary as to where she’s going with this. She glances over quickly, then directs her attention forward again. “You starting to think about finding that special someone like Chance?”
It’s out before I can temper it. “Fuck, no.” Her head snaps to the side, and now I’m the one facing front while she studies my profile. “What I mean is settling down isn’t for everyone. I’m happy for our friends, but that kind of thing isn’t in the cards for me.”
“So Romeo is the romantic,” she says, referring to Chance’s stripper name before he quit dancing, “and Ruthless is the cynic?”
“If that’s what you want to call it.” We arrive at our building, and I reach out to hold the door open for her. She’s quiet as we cross the lobby to wait for an elevator, and her silence makes me feel like I need to explain myself. “My mom left my dad for another man—his best friend, actually—when I was fourteen.”
“Oh, Roman, I’m so sorry,” she says, laying a hand on my arm. “That must have been really hard on you.”
I shrug off her concern. “It was harder on my dad.” Listening through the wall that separated our bedrooms as my father cried and drowned himself in enough scotch to find oblivion wasn’t a fucking picnic, that’s for sure. My dad was what you call a functioning alcoholic for six months before he managed to pull himself together. I don’t fool myself into thinking that my parents had a great marriage, or that my dad was blameless for the split, but I know my dad loved my mom, and losing her had nearly crushed him. Not me, though. As soon as she walked out on us, I wrote my mom off like a bad check. I don’t have time for disloyalty in my life, no matter who it is.
She chews on her lip and seems to be turning things over in her mind. When the elevator doors close, she waits for me to hit the button for our floor, then says, “So, because your parents’ didn’t work out, you’re completely anti-marriage?”
“Of course not.” Addison starts to smile, but I put a stop to it when I continue. “It’s true that it didn’t do much for my faith in the sanctity of marriage, but being raised by one of the top divorce attorneys in the state of Illinois is what snuffed out what little faith I’d had left.”
Concern is etched into the corners of her eyes. I hate that I’m putting it there, but I force myself to hold her gaze and open up, just this once. I’m not planning on going all Oprah on her, but it seems only fair to let her in a little since I’ve been trying to get her to do the same. Plus, giving her another reason to stay away from me, other than professionally, isn’t a terrible idea. I might have to depend on her keeping her distance, since my body seems determined to shred my willpower at every fucking turn.
So I keep going.
“As a teenager, my dad let me help him with easy stuff. I saw case after case of people who’d once vowed to love each other until the end of their days choosing to give up—fighting over who gets the most insignificant things, like a goddamn toaster, as if either one of them gave a shit about it. Their reasons for quitting ranged from simply falling out of love to serial infidelity and everything in between, but it all came down to the same thing: most marriages don’t last.”
I didn’t know it was possible, but I think I rendered the wildcat speechless. The elevator dings, and we step out to enter our suite, both giving a warm greeting to Maggie as we pass her. Addison peels off when we reach her office, but she says my name, so I double back the couple of feet to stand in her doorway.
“Yeah?” She cants her head as though trying to think of the best way to say what’s on her mind. “Out with it, Addison.”
“I was just curious,” she starts slowly. “You kept saying you don’t believe in marriage. Does that mean that you’re fine with the idea of long-term relationships as long as marriage isn’t involved?”
“First, it’s not that I believe marriage never works. I’m aware that there are plenty of happily married couples out there who will remain as such their entire lives. I just think the odds are grossly stacked against that outcome. I live for challenges, but there’s a difference between a challenge and a bad investment.”
“And second?”
“Second,” I say, dropping my voice to make sure it doesn’t carry down the hall. “I don’t have any issues with long-term relationships, but I’m not the kind of guy a woman wants for that sort of thing.”
She crosses her arms under her chest, and her tone holds a hint of disdain. “Is it a ‘too many fish in the sea’ problem? You don’t have any desire to be a one-woman kind of man?”
“On the contrary, Addison.” I step in close so she has to tilt her head back to hold eye contact with me, then I say gruffly, “If I were in a relationship, she’d be the only woman ever in my bed. She would be the focus of my every thought, and my greatest pleasure would be drawing hers out in every way imaginable.”
I swear I can see a tremble shudder through her. “What’s the catch?”
Clever girl. If it sounds too good to be true… “The catch,” I say, “is that I have no desire for a one-man kind of woman.”
Her mouth drops open from another temporary case of speechlessness, but I know it won’t last. I can see the wheels in her head turning so fast I’m surprised smoke isn’t coming out of her ears.
The phone intercom beeps from her desk. “Addison, you have a call on line two.”
“Um, thanks, Maggie.” She’s flustered, like she’s not sure whether she should take the call or continue our conversation. Definitely the former.
Composing myself, I say, “You’d better get that. I’ll be on calls all afternoon.” That’s a lie, but I need some distance, to breathe air not tainted with her addictive scent. “Shoot me an email if you need anything.”
As I close her door behind me and continue on to my refuge, I curse my lack of self-restraint. The woman is forbidden fruit—temptation wrapped in sin—and it’s getting harder to remember why I can’t just have a fucking taste.
Chapter Ten
Addison
I don’t know if I can do this. Work for Roman Reeves. I thought I could. I thought I could compartmentalize things, like men do. I thought I could focus on the professional relationship we now have. That I could lock up the memory of our back alley tryst in a bomb-proof safe and toss it into the oceanic depths of my mind along with the ones from my seventh-grade year when I spoke with a lisp because of my retainer.
It’s not like I haven’t been giving it the old college try. For the most part, I’m able to keep my mind on the job and out of Roman’s pants. But sometimes my eyes get stuck, and before I know it, I’m imagining those long fingers stroking into me, or his lips pursed around my clit as he brings me to climax. And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, after lunch the other day, he dropped that little bomb on me about him not wanting a “one-man woman” and I haven’t been able to think about anything else since. What the hell does that even mean?
You know what it means.
Do not.
Do, too.
Oh, shut up.
Ugh! I drop my head into my hands, thankful I’m at home and not at risk of being seen in my distraught condition. I really need to stop arguing with my subconscious. Okay, technically, there are only two things I can think of that he could’ve possibly meant about his would-be girlfriend. Either he gets off on the idea of her cheating on him, or…say it…he gets off on sharing her with other men. As crazy as it sounds, the sharing thing makes sense when I think about the alley. It wasn’t a physical sharing, but mentally and visually, we were connected with that other couple.
Fuckety fuck fuck. I can’t get him out of my head. The man does things to me. Obviously not in the literal sense, but my body doesn’t seem to be able to tell the difference. Every time that ice-blue gaze locks onto me, I get feverish and a spark lights in my belly. When he speaks to me, his mouth utte
rs legal jargon regarding our cases but all I hear are his descriptions of how wet I am, how he wants to be buried deep inside me.
I plow my hands through my hair and stand to pace in front of my couch. To say I’ve been fantasizing about Roman is what I call a “double under.” An understandable understatement. Any woman with a pulse would dream about that man and all the lascivious things he could do to her, so it’s no surprise that he’s been invading my mind almost around the clock. After our bump-and-grind session, it was thoughts of the bad boy Ruthless. But lately it’s been Roman, the picture of sophistication and raw power in a suit, who’s been directing my wayward mind.
Both sides of him are irrevocably sexy and more tempting than a deal with the devil for calorie immunity.
Shaking my arms out and cracking my neck to each side, I give myself a pep talk. “Okay, stop thinking about him, Addie. Get back to work like a good little lawyer before you spontaneously combust.”
I grab a fresh bottle of water from my fridge and take my place again on the couch with my laptop on the coffee table and files spread out around me. This is, of course, a big no-no as far as my boss is concerned, but tough titties. Working at Schmeel & Associates trained me to burn the candle at both ends, and though I hated it while I was there, I actually enjoy it now that I’m at Reeves & Cooper. Where I was used for all the dirty work and given zero recognition at Schmeel, Roman recognizes and appreciates my hard work. He takes me to court with him as his co-counsel and asks for my input on things. He guides me and teaches me. He respects me and treats me as an equal.
It does funny things to my stomach, and if I’m being honest, a little higher. But that’s completely ridiculous to allow those feelings to take root. Roman has made it abundantly clear that he has no interest in me. I was a one-time, unplanned thing, and that’s only because my inner honey badger successfully made cobra kebabs out of his willpower that night.
Besides, even if he were interested, I couldn’t go through with it. Messing around with my boss is the worst possible idea when I’ve finally landed a position with a firm that will help me grow into the kind of badass attorney I want to be. So back to work—my favorite form of distraction—it is.
Looking over the things I’ve been working on for the last couple of hours, I realize my next step is to send Roman an email with some attached documents for him to look over. But since it’s Friday night, I can’t very well send it now, or I might get another lecture about proper work-life balance. What I can do is type it up, attach everything, and save it in my drafts. Then I’ll send it to him a couple of hours into the day on Monday so it appears like I did it first thing.
I start typing with a smug grin tugging on the corners of my lips, proud of myself for beating the system. Then I attach the documents and now I’ll save it in my dr— Oh, shit! I clicked send on accident. Damn my muscle memory and the overly large, colorful button that drew my cursor to it like a redneck to NASCAR.
Okay, it’s totally fine. No problem, I can handle a little firm talking-to. Worse case scenario is he sees it and either admonishes me via email or calls me into his office again after the weekend is over. Putting it out of my mind, I take a drink of water and move on to the next thing on my list.
Thirty minutes later, I almost jump out of my skin when I hear several hard knocks on my apartment door. Frowning, I check the time on my laptop; it’s after eleven. The only person who ever knocks this late is Mr. Hollock from across the hall when my TV is too loud. I swear that I watch it at the normal level, but the walls in this place are paper-thin and for an old guy, he has supersonic hearing. My TV isn’t on, but I’ve been listening to a playlist on my computer while I work.
Sighing, I look down and take in my cozy tank top and boy shorts pajama set. If it was anyone else, I might be worried about my braless, ass-cheek-hugging condition, but for as good as the geezer’s ears are, his eyes are like those of a mole.
The knocking comes again. “Coming,” I call out as I cross to my door. I unlock it and yank it open, prepared to argue the noise pollution concern, when my words get caught in my throat. “Look, I’m not w—”
“Not what, Addison,” asks the tall, dark, and dangerous man as he towers over me, his hands gripping either side of the doorframe. “Not working? My inbox begs to differ.”
Oh. Shit. This is so not Mr. Hollock. Of all the people in all the world, the last person I expected to see on the other side of my door is Ruthless. And he is Ruthless right now. The black scruff that has grown over the course of the day shadows his jaw, his inky hair is rakishly spiked, and a thin line of kohl frames his eyes. A white wife-beater stretches across his muscled torso with the front tucked into the waistband of a worn-in pair of faded jeans with holes in the thighs. All of his accessories are present: diamond earrings, black leather wrist cuffs, silver necklace, wallet chain, and I’m betting my favorite pair of Louboutins that his silver ball piercing is in his tongue.
My brain is sending all sorts of signals to my body, each one more confusing than the last—slam the door, invite him in, say something, ignore him, walk away, jump his bones! I’m particularly fond of that last one, but it doesn’t matter because somewhere along the line, the signals are getting jammed up and I’m not responding to a one of ’em.
“Sure, I’d love to come in,” he says wryly as he brushes past me.
The electricity from that brief contact of arms jolts me into action. Closing the door, I follow behind him to where he’s standing in my living room, glaring at my casual workstation.
“Roman, what are you doing here?” I ask accusingly, as if playing dumb will somehow spare me his wrath.
He swings his gaze to me. “What did I tell you about working all the damn time?”
“I know, but—”
“It’s fucking Friday night, for Christ’s sake. You should be out with friends—or even relaxing would be acceptable.” Roman stalks me slowly, taking step after step in my direction, backing me up until my back hits my bookshelves. He braces his hands on the shelf behind my head and invades my space. His scent and nearness are making me practically salivate. “What you should not be doing is disobeying my direct order. Do you know what that makes you, Addison?”
“An insubordinate employee?”
“A very, very bad girl.”
“Oh.” All the air whooshes from my lungs as I imagine the myriad of punishments this sex god could administer that would feel more like prurient rewards of the best kind.
He rakes his eyes down my body, pausing at my breasts. I feel them go heavy and the nipples tighten under his attention, but I refuse to cross my arms and hide myself like an underdressed harlot. I’m in my pajamas in my own damn house. He’s overdressed, not the other way around.
Narrowing my gaze at him, I ask, “Get your fill of my tits yet, Mr. Reeves?”
His eyes snap up to meet mine. “Do I look like Mr. Reeves to you right now, sweetheart? Because I guaran-damn-tee I’m not here as your boss, in any capacity.”
“Then what’s with bursting into my home and ordering me to stop working?”
“I’m not,” he says, pushing off the shelving unit and taking a step back. “I’m here as a friend. I’m taking you out.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Addison. Go change or I’m dragging you out to Fever just like that.”
I’m about to snort and call his bluff when I see something flash in his eyes that tells me Roman “Ruthless” Reeves is not fucking around. “Fine,” I huff out reluctantly. “But you’re buying my drinks, hotshot.”
Chapter Eleven
Addison
Choosing to wear my black Versace (which I scored at a major discount from an overstock site) backless jumpsuit was a bad idea. The deep V neckline plunges to my sternum, showing off plenty of ample cleavage, and the only thing holding it onto my body is the halter that hooks behind my neck. My back is left completely open and the jumpsuit ends at my upper thighs, leaving my long, tanned legs—whic
h I thankfully shaved after my workout earlier tonight—bare all the way to my spaghetti strap heels.
I’d wanted to give Ruthless plenty of skin to drool over, but I’m starting to think I’m the only one affected here. Stoic as ever, Roman guides me with a firm touch on my exposed lower back, and even as I brush against dozens of others in this packed club, every nerve in my body has pooled beneath his hand so that he’s the only thing I feel.
The ride over was silent and awkward, but I wasn’t about to try and fill the silence with idle chitchat. It wasn’t my idea to drag my happy ass out here, so why he’s got a mean brood on right now is beyond me. I came out because my job is my number one priority, and apparently, it’s important to my boss that I make the time to dance and drink.
I’m certainly not here because I found it impossible to resist his sexy, bossy (yeah, I know, the irony there is classic) Ruthless persona. And it damn sure isn’t because I like the idea of dancing all up on other men—since he’ll inevitably stick to his guns about staying away from me—to try and make Roman come down with a severe case of the I-gotta-have-hers.
As we approach a semicircular booth in the back corner, I recognize Austin and Liam sitting with three beautiful women—two blondes and one brunette—dressed to kill in various minis. Everyone at the table is pretty beautiful, actually. Austin has that All-American boy thing down with his sandy blond hair, light green eyes, and dimples as deep as his southern charm. Liam is a ginger whose amber eyes have a constant mischievous glint about them.
“Oh, good, you brought her back,” Austin says with a wink in my direction.
Roman cuts him a threatening look that has his friend chuckling but not saying anything more. “Anyone need a refill? I’m heading to the bar.”
Liam shakes his head. “Nah, we just got a new round, but thanks, big guy.”
Roman nods then asks me, “What do you want?”
Lord Jesus, is that ever a loaded question. Let’s see, on my short list, I want Roman fucking me in the shower, Roman fucking me from behind, Roman fucking me—