The Billionaire Boss Next Door(68)

Ben the artist laughs, and Trent smiles, ushering me back into the seat I’ve just vacated.

“Just enjoy it,” he coaches. “Ben is a professional.”

Ben nods, and other than telling them both to fuck off, I’m pretty sure I’ve run out of options.

Nervous and twitchy, I keep my seat and try to remember to breathe as Ben gets to work.

Trent doesn’t stop smiling the entire time. But while Ben is watching me, and Trent is watching Ben, I’m watching Trent. His eyes are heated and appreciative, and my stomach turns over on itself.

Thirty minutes pass, and aside from Ben’s painting, the only thing that’s changed is how much sexual tension is in the air.

I am a live wire and Trent is water, and I’m afraid when we touch again, we just might explode.

Trent pays Ben and takes the painting before grabbing my hand with his free one and leading us back to our apartment building.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this quiet in my entire life.

Trent leads us both to his door and stops in front of it, still holding on to my hand.

My heart gallops like a Thoroughbred on the racetrack.

Time seems to stand still as he sets down the painting, turns my back to his door, and presses me up against it. My breasts heave so hard in my dress, they come into my line of sight with every inhale.

His body is still in motion—which is good since I’m a statue—and he doesn’t stop until we’re pressed together from chest to hips. I’m an absolute wreck, but I’m also ecstatic, so I don’t protest as his lips touch mine.

The contact is gentle at first, just a whisper of a kiss that I feel all the way from my vagina to my toes.

He hovers there, holding the light contact until I can’t take it anymore.

My throat feels dry, my chest feels like it’s going to explode, and my stomach has a low, burning ache I don’t think will ever go away.

Faced with a deteriorating body, I work on fixing the only thing I can, and I lick my lips to moisten my mouth.

Of course, that means I don’t just lick my lips. His are there too, pressed to mine, and the feel of running my tongue along the pair of them sends us into a frenzy.

I feel a tug on my hair as he digs a hand into it and pulls me closer, melding our bodies in such a way that I know I turn him on. His dick is hard and heavy, and dear God, being up against it like this is so much better than dreaming about it.

His tongue pushes into my mouth, curling around the tip of mine and exploring like Lewis and fucking Clark.

It’s apt, seeing as we’re in Louisiana, and my eyes start to roll back in my head.

A week ago, we were enemies. And now, we’re this. We’re speeding past friendship in a rocket designed to break the sound barrier, and it’s all I can do to keep my footing.

My God, he tastes good.

Like mint and chocolate, his mouth is the most perfect flavor of ice cream.

It’s only when I start to moan—loudly—that he pulls away and asks the only question that could bring me back to reality.

“Do you want to come in for a little while?”

His eyes are full of longing and persuasion, and I have to look away to get my bearings. The ceiling is just about my only option, and he leans forward to press his lips to the skin of my neck that’s now exposed.

I quiver, but my survival instinct kicks in and helps me form a rational thought.

“Did you get a TV?” I ask.

His no is nothing more than a shake against my neck.

It takes everything in me—literally every fiber of my being—but I somehow give him a gentle push away.

He goes without protest, but he pulls his eyebrows together.

“Greer?”

“I don’t think I should. Come in, that is.”

“Why?” he questions bluntly, not pulling any punches.

I do him the same courtesy. He deserves to know exactly what’s on my mind and why it is.

Not some frilly excuse that confuses us both.

“Because you’re my boss, Trent.”

“You think I’m that kind of guy?” he asks, but his tone isn’t defensive. Just curious and trying to understand. “That I’d hold our relationship against you?”

“I don’t think you’re any kind of guy, Trent. I don’t even think it’s a kind of guy who does things like that. I think it’s someone who’s hurting and lashing out.” His eyes soften. “But up until about a week ago, I was still convinced I hated you, and I don’t think all that well while experiencing whiplash.”

He chuckles, the smile it creates sticking to his face long after the laughter leaves.

“This job means a lot to me. More than a lot. And I’d like to think I’m smart enough not to jeopardize everything I’ve worked for on an outcome I can’t predict.”

“You can’t see the outcome of this?” he asks. “Really? I’ve got a crystal ball in the closet. We can fire it up—”

“Trent.”

“I get it.” My chest releases the tightness, and I’m relieved not to be having a heart attack, but when he takes another step back from me, separating our bodies completely, the emptiness I feel is almost crippling. “I don’t like it…but I get it.”

“I don’t like it either,” I admit. “But I think it’s for the best.”