The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)(46)

I stopped breathing altogether as he moved a fraction of an inch closer, his grip on my hips tightening.

“This is a bad idea, right?” This was the proper thing to say, when one occasionally sexually harassed one’s boss, but for the life of me I couldn’t come up with a reason to stop. The only things running through my mind were flashes of Brogan in a towel, the weight of his body against mine, the need for there to be way less clothes in this current equation.

“Yes.” His hand skimmed up my arm and caressed my cheek. He lightly tugged on the back of my neck, and I leaned down, my hands clutching the armrests. A few inches spanned between us, close enough that his exhale was my next breath. His deep brown eyes darkened with a hunger, a need that pulsed straight to my core. His lips parted, and he closed another inch of the gap between us.

“Should we stop?” My voice came out barely above a whisper.

His lips skated along the side of my neck. “No.”

And with that, his hands were in my hair, pulling me closer until our mouths connected. Soft lips swept over mine, and a sigh escaped my mouth. A lulling warmth spread from where our skin met, trailing to every muscle, every bit of skin, turning my limbs to jelly. His tongue traced along the seam of my lips, and I parted them, welcoming his touch. I melted into him, spiraling to a place of deep desperation to be closer to him.

His hands slid down the back of my shirt, down until they reached the top of my pencil skirt. My knees buckled, and I all but fell into his lap as our kiss deepened. He pulled back, heat and desire evident in his gaze, and he worked his way along the side of my jaw, finding my neck, kissing his way down my collarbone.

My hands were in his hair, across his shoulders, memorizing every inch of him. My fingers molded against Brogan’s taught muscles, and he groaned as my hands skimmed lower and lower. I’d wondered for over a month what this exact moment would feel like, and I finally had an answer. He felt like everything—a stolen breath, soft lips, a mouth that demanded all I had to give.

A sound cut through the chaos, pulling me out of the moment. The phone. The frigging phone. We both froze, hands mid-grope, lips brushing lightly, when the gravity of the situation hit harder than a foul ball to the face.

The phone continued ringing, and we just stared at each other. The panic seeping into his eyes matched the horror pounding in my chest.

Because at that moment a few things became apparent:

a) Holy crap, my imagination paled in comparison to reality.

b) I’d just taken a flying leap over the line labeled do not cross.

c) Holy crap, this was my boss. Abort! Abort!

What had we just done? And what did this mean in terms of my job? Oh my God, did he think I was one of those people that tried to sleep their way up the company ladder, because most likely anyone that didn’t share a brain with me would view it that way. Did that make me the office floozy? Did people even use that word anymore?

The phone was still ringing, each shrill ding making me flinch. “You should probably get that.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as his gaze raked over my face. “I should.”

I awkwardly extricated myself from his lap and backed toward the door. “I’m just going to head out now.” I put my hands on my hips and rocked back and forth on my heels, fighting for something intelligent to say. All that came out was, “Uh, thanks for that.”

And before he could respond, I was out the door, grabbing my purse and keys from my desk, and beelining it for the elevator with the taste of Brogan still on my lips. Going back wasn’t an option, so where did that leave us? Where did that leave my job?





Chapter Sixteen


Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #36

Gloating is never attractive. Save it for the bathroom mirror.

“He gave you what?” Jackson shrieked. The vein in the middle of his forehead visibly throbbed from across the room. He’d come in this morning to a memo from Brogan ordering him to send all the information he had on the Alexander Freeland account to me.

There came a time in someone’s life when they had an opportunity to take some variation of a personality test. Between fashion magazines and Buzzfeed quizzes that asked me which Harry Potter character I’d be (Ginny, obviously) this was a monthly occurrence. And in each one, they’d have a question that went a little something like this:

Your enemy gets his ass handed to him, how do you feel?

a) Jazz hands it up, yo

b) I have the emotional stance of Switzerland on this topic

c) Aww, I have the sudden urge to console them

While I’d always circled C (did anyone ever fully tell the truth on those things? I mean, seriously), right now I was breaking out the inner spirit fingers, dancing the “Cell Block Tango,” because really, he had it coming.

I kept the gloat out of my voice when I said, “The Gizzara account.” Well, one of his clients, at least. The rest were safety in the talons of Jackson’s nubby little man-child hands.

“I can’t believe this. You don’t deserve Alexander Freeland.” His voice pitched into a petulant whine. He pulled the files from his drawer and flounced over to my desk, dropping them in an avalanche of manila folders on my keyboard.

I straightened the files and placed them in my inbox. “Toughen up, Jackson. I’m here to stay, so you might as well get used to it.” Or at least, I hoped.