Jill Monroe - Never Naughty Enough

“You’ll make a wonderful financial counselor,” he said, dropping his pen. A touch of sadness tinged his happiness for her. She’d be leaving soon.

“I just need to finish the semester. Soon I will be helping people make better investment choices.” She leaned to the side, resting the basket on her hip.

Sprinting around the desk, he reached for the handle. “Here, let me help you with that.”

Her smile broadened as she handed him the basket, their hands brushing. She reached for the blanket on top of the basket, and with one motion shook it and let it fall to the ground.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She settled herself on the faded patches of the blanket, tucking her legs beneath her, giving him a clear view down her sweater. Her cleavage was, in a word, stunning.

He had to get her out of there. He had a merger to concentrate on, not…

“Thigh or breast?” she asked.

He gulped. Chicken. She was offering him chicken. Not her delectable body. “Both.”

Wagner sank to the floor beside her before he gawked further. This was her way to celebrate; she’d worked hard. If Annabelle wanted to sit cross-legged on the floor, he would let her. He owed her.

“I thought an indoor picnic would be nice. We both have to eat lunch. This way we don’t have to leave the office, worry about ants, and I can still answer the telephone if needed.”

Perfect sense. As always. He appreciated having Ms. Scott in the office. He’d miss her punctuality, level head and sense of order.

After pulling out two red ceramic plates from the basket, she began to lay out chicken salad and pasta. His stomach growled as the smell of warm bread hit his nose.

“Fresh from the bakery around the corner.”

She spread a liberal pat of butter on her bread with efficient movements. A little of the butter landed on her finger. She brought her finger to her lips, sucking the tip into her mouth.

Their eyes met. She’d caught him staring. “Butter?” she asked.

Oh, yeah.

“Wagner, would you like butter on your bread?”

He gave himself a mental shake. “No. Better not. Thank you.”

“Would you open the bottle?”

Reaching for the bottle, he tore the aluminum covering off with the ease of a man in familiar territory. In the past, he’d had many reasons to celebrate, but nothing to be proud of.

Stretching gracefully across the blanket, she placed his plate in front of his knee. Her fingers lightly grazed his leg. He felt the sensation through the wool material of his pants and he steeled his muscles not to react. Instead, he stared at her hands. He’d never noticed the fine bone structure of her delicate fingers and wrists.

Such slender hands to take on so much work. School, her job with him and he knew she did some freelance typing to lessen her considerable debt. His gaze moved upward. Such narrow shoulders to take on the burdens of her father. His eyes traveled to her mouth. Such sweet lips. Pink and full, demanding a man’s kiss.

His kiss.

Something strange and unusual tightened and swelled within him and his fingers pushed harder into the softness of the cork.

With a pop, the cork flew across the room and the bubbly champagne floated down the side of the bottle. Laughing, she handed him a flute.

He smiled as he felt its weight. “Plastic?”

“Couldn’t find glass.”

Eating on the carpet and drinking out of plastic champagne glasses was the other side of the planet from his caviar and Cristal days. Five years ago he could clear a path to the buffet just by walking through the room. Gourmet food on the finest china had awaited him.

Somehow he liked this better.

After carefully filling the two glasses, he handed one to her. Annabelle Scott had worked with him for so long, they meshed. But he could not remember ever having a meal with her or even being so close he smelled the tantalizing vanilla scent of her shampoo or noticed the tiny dimple in her right cheek.

Except once.

He’d forgotten that one. Until now.

Two months ago, they’d worked late into the night on a project proposal. She’d fallen asleep on the couch in the corner of his office. He’d only meant to bring her a cup of coffee so she’d be awake enough to drive home. Instead, he’d found himself staring at the way her hair curled around the soft curve of her chin. The seductive roll of her hips and the tugging of her breasts against the buttons of her blouse had jerked at his body. Pure temptation.

He’d walked away congratulating himself on not making the huge mistake of kissing her awake as his instinct first had urged.

The dimple appeared in her cheek as she slowly sucked in a coil of pasta.

A spiral of desire shot through his body. Wagner looked away. The food on his plate was a much safer place to stare.

Silence settled between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but after a few minutes, something propelled him to break it.

“How’s your back?”

Her eyebrows knotted together in confusion, then she smiled. “Oh, fine. Just needed to stretch a little bit. All that studying.”

A cold sweat blasted him on the back of the neck as she closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders. His gaze roamed to her breasts and he very nearly groaned. He grabbed the plastic champagne flute and downed his bubbly in one long swallow.

Then he coughed. “That’s not champagne.”

“No. I didn’t think alcohol would be wise in the middle of a workday. That’s sparkling plum cider.”

“Very…interesting flavor,” he said between coughing and trying to catch his breath.

“It was all they had.”

Coughing a few more times, he gasped for air, not able to break the cycle. Ms. Scott reached over and patted him on the back. Her breasts swayed before his eyes. The urge to cough again assailed him. Be an adult. “I’m okay.”

She leaned away, her eyebrows knotting again. “I have just the thing to clean your palate.” She returned her attention to the basket and pulled out two large slivers of chocolate cake and a bunch of green grapes.

“The grapes aren’t really in season yet, so they cost a fortune, but I just love them, don’t you?”

He nearly sprang up from the blanket when her pink tongue licked the plumpness of the grape. He imagined her tongue touching and tasting his—

What the hell was happening to him? The way she was eating made him think of nothing but sex. With Ms. Scott. Sex with Ms. Scott.

The absurdity of the idea drove him to his feet. Unfortunately he took the corner of the blanket with him. Silverware clinked off her plate and the chocolate cake flipped to the carpet. She scrambled after it.

“Ms. Scott, thank you for the lunch. I’ll eat the rest at my desk. I have to go over this merger contract one more time.”

Maybe he had more of the hunter left in him than he thought. His company falling about his ears, his most valued assistant about to leave him and the only thing that filled his mind was the image of her on that patchwork blanket.

Naked.

And the ideas. The first image had him laying her back on that quilt and drawing her into his arms. The second one had to do with butter, slathering and licking. He balled his hands into fists to prevent himself from acting on those ideas.

When she looked at him, her eyes were filled with something… What was it… ? Hurt?

Anger, with himself and this strange, frustrating situation, made him regret his awkward, brusque behavior. “Uh, thank you, Ms. Scott. And congratulations.”

With a tight nod, she scooted around on the quilt on all fours, gathering the remnants of their lunch and returning it into the wicker basket. He turned his head as her delicious backside came into view.

He was a pig.