Diary of a Bad Boy(37)

Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen, complete and utter shock crosses her face. “You want to have sex with me?”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Oh.”

She looks away and goes to say something but doesn’t.

“It’s not going to happen,” I add, seeing how her mind is already starting to race. “So get that out of your head.”

“It’s not?” She shakes her head, as if realizing what she just asked. “I mean, it’s not. We’re colleagues.”

“And you’re eight years younger than I am and my client’s daughter and frankly, I think you’d be a clinger.”

Her eyes narrow as she puffs out her chest. “I would not be a clinger. I’m not a virgin.”

“Yeah, got that from one of your fun factoids.” There is a good fifteen feet between us, and I want to keep it that way so I stay behind the bar. “But from the sounds of your uninspired and lackluster descriptions, you’ve never experienced good fucking.”

“I know about sex,” she says.

“But have you ever come?”

“Yes.”

“With a man?”

She looks to the side. Bingo.

“That’s what I thought. After I fucked you, I’m one hundred percent sure you’d be a clinger.”

“You’re awfully full of yourself.” She folds her arms over her ample chest, propping her boobs up, enticing me. “How do you even know you could get me off?”

I give her a once-over. “Trust me. I know.”

Clearly irritated with my confidence, she turns back to her food, huffing in the process and stabbing the meat with her fork. I inwardly cringe, hoping she’s not envisioning me in her brutal attack on the shepherd’s pie.

This might sound a little dickish, but I believe in what I said. She would be a clinger . . . or she would fall in love. Fuck. No. Where Sutton is involved, there is no casual. She’s not the kind of girl who can have a one-night stand and then move on with life. She’s way too sweet with her heart on her sleeve. No way, not going there, no matter how much her ass in those leggings begs for it.

Wanting to cut the growing tension since we still have to work together, I clear my throat. “So, you only told me two facts, what’s the last one?”

She glances up in my direction, anger laced in her pupils. Good, let her be angry. Anger is so much better than happy to see me.

Mulling it over, she takes a few seconds before she answers, but when she does, it packs one hell of a punch. “My third fact? Easy . . . my bra size is 34D.”

Sharply, she smiles at me and then turns back to her food.

Touché.





Yup, she’s a 34D. I’m confirming it for the twentieth time tonight. Every time she bends over to write something in her notepad on the coffee table, I look down her sweater.

It’s a great view that’s kept me hard the entire time we’ve been talking about the camp. I can’t tell you anything about what we’ve been planning, as my mind has been anywhere but on helping children. Instead, it’s been on the way she licks her lips every few minutes, or the way she poises her pen at her mouth when she thinks, or how she lights up when she gets an idea.

And . . . her tits.

I’ve been obsessed with the things ever since I ran into her. Now that I know a little more about them, I want to become well-acquainted best friends. I’ve never been best friends with breasts before, but I’m open to the idea.

“Are you paying attention?” she snaps at me, pulling my gaze away from her chest.

“What? Yup.” I scratch the side of my jaw. “You were talking about equipment.”

“I was talking about dietary restrictions.”

“Same thing.” I shrug.

“It’s not the same thing.” She sighs in exasperation. “Roark, I need you to focus.”

I lean back on the couch. “There is no focusing when you’re wearing that sweater. It’s billowing all over the place. Why did you wear that?”

She glances at her sweater and actually seems shocked I have a problem with it. “It’s comfortable.”

“It’s a goddamn scarf.” I lift from my seat on the couch and go to my bedroom where I pull out a long-sleeved T-shirt and take it to her. I toss it on her lap and say, “Change into that. We’ll get more done.”

“I’m not going to change my shirt because you’re horny and frustrated by my tits, as you so elegantly called them.”

I’m not going to deny her assessment of me so I just shrug and say, “Fine, good luck.”

I drape my arm over the back of the couch and get comfortable. I won’t blatantly stare at her chest, but I know I’m going to grab another peek in about a minute, because the need to look at them has become like clockwork for my eyes tonight.

She starts rattling off about something and, as expected, she bends forward giving me a great view of the swell of her breasts. I sigh in happiness. There they are again.

“Are you seriously looking down my shirt again, after I called you horny?”

“It’s what horny men do, they look down shirts, especially after you reveal bra sizes. I’m just verifying.”

She groans and huffs and in seconds pulls her sweater up and over her head. My mouth falls open as I watch the black lace bra barely contain her tits. They jiggle around with her movements, almost revealing nipple, and as she struggles to unfold my shirt, I beg for her bra to bust open right then and there. But there’s no use. God hates me, and before I can truly commit the sight in front of me to memory, she’s pulling my shirt over her head. The sleeves are entirely too long so she starts to fold them up, and the shoulders hang off her in a cute way.