Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(17)

I grit my teeth in frustration. “You’re telling me I’m the only one wanting right now?”

My other hand slides up her waist until my fingers brush the underside of her bra. In response, she bats my hand away, and even in my irritation, I nearly smile, because it’s so her. So us.

She whirls toward me, and the air all but crackles around us. With anger, with sexual tension, with whatever else is between us, always.

I wish I knew what it was. I’m not sure it has a name. Because even though I know down to my very core I’m not cut out for the monogamous-relationship thing—I don’t want a serious girlfriend ever, much less a wife—the woman in front of me is the only one who’s ever made me think maybe.

Maybe.

Helpless against the onslaught, I do the only thing I can think of. I kiss her.

My fingers tangle in her hair, and my mouth is urgent as it claims hers.

She stiffens immediately, her hands going to my shoulders, ready to shove me off.

I gentle my touch, even as I ease closer. I let her know that she can step away if she chooses, but I intend to make damn sure she makes another choice.

I kiss the corner of her mouth softly. Kiss me back.

My lips drift over her stubborn jaw. Want me back.

I feel the moment she capitulates, her small body softening against mine. I pull her closer, my mouth finding hers again . . .

“Sabrina, how’s everything fitting?”

Sabrina reels back at the sound of the saleswoman’s chipper voice, and she slaps her hand against my mouth, her eyes commanding. Be quiet.

“I’m all good, Mon, thanks!” Sabrina says with an equally chipper tone. I’ll give her credit—her voice is as smooth and even as it always is. Not easy to ruffle, this one.

Monica, however, doesn’t get the hint. “You need another size on anything? I’ve had a couple people tell me that the off-the-shoulder dress is running a bit snug.”

“Haven’t gotten to that one yet. I’ll let you know,” Sabrina says, pressing her palm more firmly against my mouth.

“Isn’t that blue turtleneck gorge?” Monica babbles on. “The second I saw it, I knew it would look uh-mazing on you.”

“I love it,” Sabrina says. “It’s definitely going home with me.”

I narrow my eyes, because I’m pretty sure she hasn’t even seen the shirt yet.

She presses her hand harder against my mouth. Shut up.

I smile against her palm.

“Okay, well, I’ll leave you to it. Just pop your head out or give a holler if you need more champagne or a different size or anything. Mr. Cannon, how are things going on your side?”

I bite back a laugh, and Sabrina rests her forehead briefly to my shoulder in defeat.

“Any ideas?” I whisper against her fingers.

She lifts her hand, and though I can practically see the wheels turning in her brain, trying to come up with a solution, she knows when she’s beat. Sabrina lets out a little sigh and shakes her head.

“Mr. Cannon?” Monica asks again.

I clear my throat, feeling a bit like I did in prep school when Mrs. Gallagher caught me feeling up Jen Fowler in the utility closet. “All good, thanks,” I say, not bothering to keep the amusement out of my voice.

There’s a moment of confused silence, and I imagine Monica uttering a silent ohhhhhh as the situation clicks into place in her mind.

“Okay, great!” she chirps, her voice a full octave higher than before. “I need to run out to the front real quick, but I’ll be back in a bit!”

Sabrina and I stay perfectly still until the lingering silence tells us Monica’s left the dressing room area.

“Well,” Sabrina says in a quiet voice, stepping back. “That was . . . horrifying.”

“Come on. You’ve never hooked up in a dressing room before?”

“Not since I was seventeen and in a mall,” she says, pulling a shirt off the stack of clothes to try on and tugging it over her head.

“I like it,” I say, nodding at the fitted red top.

“Shut up,” she mutters, attempting to detangle her hair from a tag.

“Need a hand?”

“No,” she snaps irritably. “I need for you to get out of here and go figure out what of the stuff she brought you you’re going to buy. You know what, just buy all of it. It’s the least you can do after—”

“After what?” I ask, swatting her hands aside and carefully pulling the dark strands of her silky hair away from the tag at the back of the shirt.

“After we defiled their dressing room.”

“Defiled?” I say with a laugh. “It was a kiss. We didn’t even get to the good stuff.”

“Thank God for that. I nearly violated my own rule.” She sounds genuinely horrified by the realization.

I catch her chin with my fingers, studying her face. “When did you turn into such a prude?”

“I’m not a prude; I’m a professional. This may be a game to you, but it’s not to me. This is my job.”

“Are you forgetting why we’re here in the first place?” I ask, stepping closer. “For my job. And believe me when I say that my career being on the line is just about the only thing that could compel me to come to you for help.”