Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(15)

His voice is husky, his demeanor stern.

I turn, unable to refuse. Gasping at the sight of those abs and pecs, I can’t help but focus on his clothes, the torn shirt that he holds in front of what must be a very erect, very hard, and maybe even BEAUTIFUL cock.

Maybe isn’t even a possibility here.

Every inch of this man is perfect. Raw and unrefined, but perfect.

At least from what I can see.

But I’m pretty sure his confidence is a testament to past compliments that he’s probably earned in many beds—or maybe in the back seat of a cab.

A wicked shiver runs down my spine as I remember him groping me, and my own body reacts as I run my eyes along his muscles.

“What?” I’m uncomfortable, and it’s not right, dammit. This is my home, my fortress, and this man makes my world tilt.

His roguish smile proves he knows what his presence here does to me, what his naked body makes me think about.

He curses under his breath. “Great. Just what I need. A prim and proper princess when the lights are on. You always wear a suit?”

He drops his clothes to the coffee table, and I struggle to keep my composure, not that keeping one’s composure includes gaping at a man’s bare cock and imagining what it might feel like to . . .

Dammit to hell.

Stop. Just stop it.

And I don’t know if I’m trying to mentally convey the message to James or if I’m ridiculing myself here, but either way? I can’t seem to avert my eyes no matter how much I want to.

Do I even want to?

Fuck no.

I mean, I’m a grown woman. I’ve seen a man’s dick before, but this . . . man . . . and HIS dick?

Whoa.

He watches me until he deliberately pulls on his T-shirt and drags it across his tight stomach. The tip of his cock brushes against the hem of his shirt, but I still don’t look away, and I’m not sure why.

I don’t behave like this, not under most circumstances anyway, but I didn’t ask him to lower his clothes. I didn’t tell him to show me what he’s made of—delectable inches and inches of perfect male.

He smirks as he holds out his arms. “Seen enough?” His voice is thick and sultry. My stomach constricts in response to his tone.

I turn away, but hiding now is a moot point. “I see you’re not shy.”

“Nope. So if you’re a princess by day, what are you by night?” he gruffs out.

I hear the rumple of his jeans as he drags them on, and I face him again. “What do you mean?” My own voice sounds odd. Sort of . . . crackly.

He left the fly open.

He.

Left.

His.

Fly.

Open.

My eyes hurt from the pain caused by wanting to look down again but forcing myself not to.

My eyes fall for a second. I stare at the thick, hard . . .

I pull them back up, glaring at him in some sort of automatic self-preservation mechanism.

There’s that smirk dancing on his wicked lips again.

“So snippy in the morning,” he croons devilishly. “Can’t blame a guy for asking. Last night, I felt the heat from your gaze all the way across the room. This morning? Those pretty eyes are ice, heiress.”

He inches closer, and I steel myself against his approach, swallowing back the nervousness that I refuse to let him see.

He bites his lip and quickly grabs me by the back of my neck, and I yelp in surprise.

His body heat envelops me. Excites me. Worries me.

“So, Elizabeth Banks. Do ya always turn into a man-eater after happy hour?” He grins as he lowers his head and keeps his lips a breath away from mine. “Because if so, after the way ya ran your eyes all over me? I wanna know where to find ya between say, seven and nine tonight?”

“I—” Desperately need some sex therapy now, but I’m not sure if that requires a professional, or a bad boy like James Rowan.

“I’ll be right here. Working. And you won’t be . . . the last thing I plan to do is eat a man like you. You’re not my flavor. And I don’t want to get indigestion.” I brace myself and say, “Listen to me. That’s not what this is about.”

I huff and free myself from James’s grip as he releases a low, deep chuckle.

Taking charge of the situation by shooting him a “down, boy” glare, I head to my office, located to the right of the living room. I take a seat in my office chair, prop up my glasses, and start adding more things to my list.

Occasionally, I lift my gaze and study him. He tugs on his shoes and finishes gathering his limited belongings. As he threads his belt through the loops, I hold my breath. He takes his time with the buckle, and it’s a lame effort to tease me.

Only, it’s not really that lame, because it’s working.

He’s a stone’s throw away. RIGHT THERE. In my living room!

I crane my neck, but it’s no use. I’ve already witnessed the best part of this show, the way he slowly pulled on his T-shirt and covered a rather impressive chest, the way he teased me with his cock, looked on in silent anticipation as if he expected me to . . . to what, Elizabeth? Surely the guy wouldn’t ask you to fuck.

Oh yes. This guy definitely would.

That’s part of what scares me, part of what makes him so hot.

He lifts his head as if he senses my stare, and I catch a sultry look in his eyes only to get another uncomfortable squeeze in my tummy. I look away.