Friction(13)

“I need your email,” he says. “Lorelei’s in London is on the line about a custom order for IFD next January, and they're interested in doing some heavy marketing in their store and on their website. Since you’re our new marketing wizard, I want to put them in touch with you.”

I have no idea what IFD is, and I have no idea why Lorelei’s is calling him at midnight their time, but his wizard comment makes me forget his barked command from before. Fighting the urge to smile, I scribble my email address on a piece of paper and push it over to him. He bobs his head to the row of chairs beside Daisy's desk, so I sit on the edge of one, nervously drumming my fingertips against my knees.

"Right. Do you have a pen handy?” he asks when he returns to his call. "Her name is Lucy Williams, and her email address is [email protected]." I notice that, when he reads the last name aloud, he scowls. A moment passes then I become the recipient of that dark stare.

Squaring my shoulders, I face it without flinching.

What the hell is his problem?

He's still glaring at me as he tells his caller, "No, it's Lucy with a Y. That’s right, L-U-C-Y."

It's a struggle to keep my eyes on his while he wraps up his conversation, but when his attention finally lowers to my mouth, and he traces the curves of my red lips, I glance away to the steel clock on Daisy's desk, pretending the fancy cogs and hands are the most interesting thing I've seen in years. Dammit, Mom was definitely right. I shouldn't have worn red lipstick. I'm in the middle of anxiously running my fingertip over my mouth when Jace's voice drags me out of my thoughts.

"Stop that. You're going to smear it everywhere," he states sharply, drawing his feet off Daisy's desk and rising to his feet.

I forgot how tall he is—he’s at least six foot, and my heart thunders as I scan my gaze from his boots to the top of his dark, unkempt hair.

"I'm sorry, if it's too much, I can wipe it off. I wasn't sure what you meant, and I haven't received the company appearance code yet."

"Appearance code," he muses, the edges of his mouth quivering. He comes around to the front of the desk and leans his long body against it. I can try all I want to play the avoidance game, but I can't resist sweeping my eyes over the way his dark jeans seem to be made only for his legs or the way the short sleeves of his white tee shirt hugs his biceps. The last time I saw him, his flannel shirt hid most of the tattoos on his arms. Tonight, they're on full display—a colorful collection of words and patterns bursting over golden skin and thick muscles.

He crosses his arms over his chest, breaking my focus. "See something you like, love?"

"I'm just admiring the artwork." It's a lie, and he knows it. His grin widens. I reach up to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and bite the inside of my lip once I realize there's not a strand out of place because it’s all pulled back into a ponytail. "So ... about that dress code?"

"If you haven't noticed, we're unorthodox here. We don't have one, have never had one, and don't plan on getting one anytime soon. Come in whatever pleases you. What you're wearing now is..." His voice trails off, and his blue-gray eyes settle on my black blazer. I shift uncomfortably and look down at my clothing.

"What I'm wearing now is what?"

"Very, very buttoned up."

I finger the top hook of my white shirt and give him a confused look. "I'm sorry, but how did you want me to dress? Unbuttoned?"

He crooks his finger at me, the gesture measured, seductive. Screw me sideways, how many women have tripped all over their own two feet answering to that call? "Come here."

I don't immediately move, so he lets out an irritated exhale and shoves away from the desk. He takes the chair directly beside mine and scoots close. I hold my breath because he smells incredible—like spice and sex and sin.

"May I?" he asks, and my brow creases even as my body turns toward his.

"May you what?"

"Help you out, Lucy." When I don't nod or shake my head to confirm or deny, he brushes the pad of his thumb over the lapel of my blazer. Our skin doesn’t make direct contact, but that doesn't halt the current from passing through my body. It settles between my chest and stomach, pinging between my heart and my core. He gives my blazer a soft tug. "Take this off," he orders.

I inhale sharply. He's asking me to take off clothes. Why is he asking me to take off my clothes? I shake my head so hard, my black ponytail swishes around my shoulders, swinging over the Roman numerals on his fingers. He stares at the hair curtaining his hand then he pushes it back. That mere motion, his fingers in my hair and against my shoulder, makes it hard to speak or think.

"Why do you—" I eventually start, but he releases a low, frustrated sound.

"Take. Off. The. Jacket. Please." Glowering at him, I shrug out of my blazer and drape it over my lap. "Now, undo these." He nudges the top two buttons of my white blouse with his knuckles, and in the process, captures my breath and holds it hostage.

I do as he asks, ignoring the way my fingers tremble and how my skin is hot to the touch as I open the first couple buttons. When my fingers skim his, I’m seconds from losing it, but I pretend that he’s not just doused the flames tearing through me with gasoline.