Nicola Marsh - Out of Hours...Office Affairs - Can't Get Enough / Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss / Bound to the Greek

“Ditto. Again, another good reason for us not working together.”

“Well, get over it. Because I told Morgan we could sort this out,” she fired back at him.

He looked so surprised she almost laughed.

“You did?”

“Someone has to be grown-up about this. And I’m not going to see my magazine stall because of your ego.”

“My ego?”

He stared at her, but then, almost as if some irresistible force drew his gaze downward, his eyes dropped to her chest. She’d been aware that his eyes had strayed below her neckline more than once in the past few minutes. She felt his gaze like heat on her skin, and she swallowed nervously. Or was it excitedly? She was so confused right now, it was hard to tell the difference. In a split second all her thoughts turned from being furious with him to feverishly anticipating the touch of his hands on her breasts again. She wanted to feel the welcome weight of his body on top of hers. She wanted to touch his smooth, firm skin and hold the strength of him in her hands again. In an instant her panties were damp with wet heat, and her breath was coming short and sharp. She wanted him—but he had to make the first move. She couldn’t risk making herself vulnerable again.

JACK COULDN’T STOP his gaze from dropping to her breasts. He ordered himself not to look, but it was useless. What man could resist when fate had handed him such a golden opportunity? She was wearing a cream lace bra today, and her breasts curved lovingly into it, rising and falling with each breath she took.

She was so damn hot. How was he supposed to resist her when she was running around taunting him like this? He was trying to do the right thing here, trying to be a nice guy and spare her feelings. Because it would be the easiest thing in the world to just sleep with her again, drink his fill, explore the chemistry between them and then move on. He was doing her a favor, damn it—and now she was showing him exactly what he was missing out on.

All he had to do was reach out and pull her to him. His muscles tensed in anticipation. He’d slide her shirt off, then that bra—pretty as it was, it was nothing compared to her unadorned breasts. The pale pink of her nipples, the way they puckered so responsively under his touch, the taste of her, the heat of her skin, the little hitch she got in her breathing when he sucked her nipples deep into his mouth. He’d back her against the desk, pull up that prim little skirt of hers and slide himself into her. She’d get that look in her eye, that glazed but oddly intent look, and she would tilt her hips and tighten her strong, firm legs around his hips—

He didn’t need to look down to know that he was rock hard again, his erection straining against the fly of his jeans. Something had to give—and he had a feeling it was going to be him.

“For Pete’s sake, how am I supposed to concentrate? Come here,” he said, reaching toward her impatiently.

Before Claire could object she’d been forcibly hauled forward by the lapels of her shirt. His body was hard and warm against hers, and for a beat they stood pressed against each other, neither saying a word, their eyes locked together. Her mind was racing. Was he going to kiss her again? God, she wanted him to—even after the humiliation of last night, she wanted him, bad. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she inhaled sharply, feeling the fullness of her breasts press against his chest. Then he grabbed something from his desk, jamming it between them. A metallic click sounded, and he pushed her away.

She blinked down at her shirt, staring in growing indignation at the staple now holding her blouse together more modestly. Two messy hunks of fabric stuck out on either side of the staple—a five-year-old with bad eyesight could have done a better job.

“This is a Gucci shirt,” she said slowly, enunciating carefully so he understood exactly what he’d done.

“I was doing you a favor. I know how uptight you are about public displays of underwear.”

She felt a stress twitch break out below her left eye. She was sure that if she had her lawyers introduce the ruined Gucci shirt as exhibit A during her murder trial, she could fully justify turning his stupid desk stapler on him till he died the death of a thousand tiny puncture wounds.

She managed to ignore the fact that once again she had been putty in his hands, while he remained supremely unaffected. She could bring that realization out later and really soak up the rejection. But for now, there was her favorite shirt to consider….

He seemed to sense the surge of homicidal feeling rising within her, because he wisely moved away until the desk was between them.

“As much as I enjoy having you carp at me, I do have another meeting in five minutes. So if you don’t mind…?” he said carelessly.

She stood there, her hands curled into two tight fists by her sides.

“I’m not leaving this office until we’ve sorted this out. I need a man to talk golf and football with Hillcrest, and you are a man. But that’s all I need. I don’t want you writing big-game-fishing articles for Welcome Home , I don’t want you interfering in the design process and I certainly don’t want you having any say over editorial content.”

He cocked his head to one side as though he was actually considering it. “Gee, you make it sound like such an attractive gig. No.”

She glared at him, reading the determination in every line of his body. He was even breathing a little faster, just like her. He was like her in many ways, she realized, remembering all the things they’d found in common yesterday. And before she could stop herself, she was considering how she’d react if he came to her with this offer. What if there was some female-oriented magazine he was working on, and he needed a Trojan horse woman to get him in under the client’s radar…?

Some of her self-righteous anger faded as she acknowledged that she’d have told him to stick his stupid offer where only the doctor could surgically retrieve it. Kind of like he just had, after ruining her favorite shirt. Forcing herself to push her personal feelings of humiliation and rejection to one side, Claire decided to be pragmatic. She wanted to get her magazine up and running, and to do that, she needed to do a deal with this devil.

“Okay, what’s it going to take?” she asked suddenly, changing tactics midstream.

He eyed her warily. “Don’t tell me you’re that desperate.”

“Jack, Beck has given me no choice on this. So…what’s it going to take?”

A significant pause stretched between them. She could see his mind ticking away, no doubt trying to come up with the most outrageous demand he could formulate. She braced herself.

“Give me a project every issue. You’ve got a furniture-making section, yeah? Give me something in that, and I’ll press the flesh and laugh at old man Hillcrest’s bad jokes. It’s that, or nothing. I can’t take credit for something I didn’t even touch.”

She was aware that her jaw was hanging slackly and she made an effort to not look too witless and stunned. She’d been expecting something offensive at best. This was…well, very reasonable.

“That’s it? That’s all you want?” she clarified.

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

Once again she was on the back foot. Why did that always happen with this man?

“I just…I thought you would…Look, it doesn’t matter. The project idea is good. Actually, it’ll be helpful. I’m sort of breaking in a project guy, and he’s a bit nervous about taking on the full workload,” she stumbled, trying hard to regain some kind of professional footing.

A hard task when your most prominent fashion accessory is a stapled cleavage.

“Fine. Can I have my office back now?”