Friction(40)

“What? Why?” Ignoring the currents dancing through my veins, I snatch away from him, placing my palms flat on my lap. “Are you sure you were listening to what I said? We were talking about--"

"Your hands, Lucy," he repeats. "Let me see your hands if you want me to give you an answer about that fucking radio show."

"Blackmail, Jace? Really?" But I do as he's asked, stretching my arms out directly in front of me and lightly touching my wrists together. My breath becomes nothing the moment he comes to his feet, his own fingers spread apart on the surface of his desk as he leans far over and examines me again.

There is nothing subtle about his perusal, and his bold stare and minty breath are hot against my skin. The moment he's through and his ass is back in his seat, I hug myself, making sure my hands are safely tucked beneath my upper arms.

"Congratulations, Exley. You’re officially a certified creeper.”

"And you have perfect hands, Williams." He glances at my arms still crossed over my chest and glides his tongue from side to side between his straight white teeth. “Among your other stunning attributes.”

Here we go again.

Refusing to get caught up in him again only to get shot down, I clear my throat and shake my head. "So about Allene..."

He grabs a pen and taps it to the armrest of his chair, his focus distracted once more. "You can schedule whatever it is you see fit, but on one condition."

"Why am I suddenly terrified to ask what that might be?" I feel another harsh pump within my ribcage at the look he offers me. It's self-possessed, a stomach-curling, heart-racing grin that slinks across his face and makes him resemble a fallen, tattooed angel.

"Don't be terrified, love," he drawls. "All I need is your hands for fifteen minutes.”





Fourteen





Lucy





"This is ridiculous," I huff as Jace and I make our way across the workshop floor. The guys’ questioning stares are hot on the back of my neck, and I’m shaking in embarrassment when we stop in front of a door. Griff speaks up—and I swear I hear him say, “Smile big, love,”—but I can’t be sure. Focusing clearly became impossible the second Jace leaned over my fingers a few minutes ago. And now, he’s standing close to me, so damn close, that I'm hardly able to breathe without drawing in his scent.

My brows tug together. "A storage room? Seriously, boss, what the hell is going on?"

The wicked grin he lowers to my face raises the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck. “You ask too many questions.” He digs in the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a set of keys. “Just like in school.”

"How else am I supposed to figure out what you’re—”

He covers my lips with the tip of his fingers, stealing my next few words right along with my breath. "You talk too much. If you’d just shut your hole for a moment, I could finish unlocking the door and all will magically be revealed."

Narrowing my eyes, I poke my tongue in my cheek, but I don’t utter a word as he works on finding the right key to unlock the door.

The moment he opens the door and switches on the light, I realize that I've once again assumed wrong in thinking he was taking me into a storage closet to use my hands. Instead of supplies, I'm standing face to face with a setup that looks like it took a page from one of the downstairs rooms at Mr. B’s house.

He's brought me to a bed.

Like the ones at his eccentric client's house, this metal monstrosity has a custom headboard, footboard, and posts, all with gaps of varying sizes obviously meant to support any and everything. Luxurious white satin bedding covers the mattress, and when I take a tentative step inside the room that sure as hell isn't where the packing boxes are kept, I gasp the second my gaze lands on a set of thick, shiny manacles sitting right in the center of the plush satin.

"What in the fresh hell is this?" I hear myself say. I snap my gaze back to meet Jace's smirk.

His stance widens and he runs his finger across his upper lip. He didn’t shave today, and his stubble makes my hands itch to roam over his face. "A bed, love."

I turn completely around, crossing my arms over my chest and in the process, squishing my breasts together until he has a healthy eyeful of cleavage. His focus dips for a moment, and my stomach does something that's between a violent pitch and a delicious curl. I drop my arms to my sides.

He looks me in the eye again.

"Please tell me what my stunning hands have to do with a bed, Mr. Exley. And I’d prefer that whatever you say doesn’t make me want to knee you in the balls." There's a hysterical edge to my voice, and I press both my palms to my stomach. I take a step away from him. "I'm totally confused."

"Relax, Lucy." He closes the door and locks it, and my pulse races. He strides past me, leans his tall body over the bed, and comes up with the cuffs dangling from his long fingertips. "I have a possible custom order from the Netherlands."

"Okay," I say, hating how breathless I sound.

"My client is anxious to see what the wide restraints look like on. Since I’ve got man hands and my usual model for this sort of thing is out of commission, I’d love to save money by pulling from my existing”—he scans my body from head to toe and tugs the corner of his lip between his teeth—“talent pool.”