Mogul (Manhattan #2)(34)

“I know,” I whisper saucily, trying to hide my excitement.

He continues, somber, eyes intent. “I have no feelings for my ex-wife, but I do need to legally wrap things up. Let’s have a period of fun with no commitments. Just so you know, I’m not dating anyone else. I’m enjoying my time with you. Let’s see where this takes us. What do you think?”

I’m flustered, and impressed, but trying to hide it as I tease him sardonically. “Did you practice that?”

“Maybe.” He sasses me back, taking my coffee from my grip and setting it aside. He gentles his voice.

“I asked you a question, Sara.”

I meet his gaze. “I’ll think about it.” I speak softly. “I never planned to get involved with someone who’s in the middle of a divorce. I need to be sure about what I’m getting into.”

“We can keep it casual. It’s best for both of us.” He tips my face up to look at him.

I smile and reach out to set my hand on his shoulder, the muscle tight under my palm. His entire frame tightens. His eyes darken.

I’m chasing my breaths when we look at each other’s lips.

He moves me closer.

He tilts my face back and draws it to his, and when a gasp leaves my lips, he bends his head and takes it, that gasp, that moan, tasting his toothpaste on my mouth.

“Think about it fast. We’ve been waiting long enough to test this out. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

He looks intent as he eases back and I lick my lips. A sigh escapes me as I slide my hands behind his neck and raise my face for more. “Yummy motherfucker, what are you doing to me?” I breathe as he grabs the back of my head and takes the mouth I offer.





LAUNCH


Sara



Did I dream the hot kisses Ian gave me this morning? Did I dream his townhouse? Sleeping on a bare mattress on the floor? With my Suit wearing… well, practically, his suit?

I didn’t dream it. I lick my lips and that taste is definitely Ian. I sniff my clothes on the train ride to the House of Sass offices and that smell is Ian’s cologne.

Ian is all over me except on the one part that still aches for him. My sex.

Oh well.

Maybe he doesn’t know for sure that I’m interested. Maybe he believes that it was the wine talking last night. And oh yes, the wine talked quite a bit. I have a headache to prove it. But it wasn’t the wine—it was me talking. I wanted him. I still do.

But this is a guy going through some very intense legal proceedings, and having my parents just go through a horrible breakup, I’m not too keen to jump into stormy waters.

When I get home, I exhale in relief realizing Becka isn’t on the couch and the shower is running. She’s bathing, thank God.

Nobody will know I was out giving private dances to Mr. Ford. I creep into my room and rumple my bed. I don’t want to tell Bryn about what’s happening with Dirty Workaholic. I feel like she will be the voice of my conscience. And I don’t want her to tell me what I already know.

So I head out and pretend that I don’t have the hottest guy with the biggest dick waiting on the sidelines for me to casually date if I so choose. I pretend I don’t already know my answer.

I told him I had a busy week and would think about it, buying myself a bit of time, but I already crave to see him again. Bryn has gone on a couple of dates from the Match.com account Becka opened for her. If things are too messy with Ian, I can join her on there, I suppose.

But the thought makes my stomach cave in on itself. For months I haven’t been able to think of anyone but Ian. It’s hard to imagine anyone or anything being able to change that.

Let’s see if you can bear a few days without him, Sara. Maybe you’re stronger than you think and can step back and evaluate things, I tell myself that weekend as Bryn and I head to Brooklyn in an Uber, to the warehouse that will be formally House of Sass.

We arrive ready to work. Bryn looks like she means business, even though I heard her cry this morning, just like every other morning since the Big Breakup.

“You’ll get over him,” Jensen tells her when he comes in to help. He sees her bleary eyes and hugs her.

“Of course. I’m already getting hit up on Match.com.” Bryn tries to wave off her breakup as if it’s not important. “I’m such a good catch.”

“Damn right, love bug.” Jensen rumples her hair.

We start unpacking boxes, cutting open the tape with knives, pulling out clothes, and getting them up on the racks.

“You’re good at this,” I grumble at Bryn with playful, open resentment. She’s on her third box and I’m still on my first. I tear a nail and curse. “You owe me a manicure. Pedicure too,” I warn, sucking on my broken nail.

“You’re not even using your feet!” She laughs. “I’m good at this because we used to do this at my parents’ department store before it was sold.” She winks, but the nostalgia is clearly evident in her voice.

“And now look at what you’re going to have, all for yourself.” I motion to the huge warehouse that we’re setting up to be her modern-age clothing store. It’s going to be fantastic.

“Not just for myself. I have an investor, remember.” Her eyes shadow when she mentions Aaric Christos.

“And you could have had him, too, if it weren’t for his floozy bimbo ex—”