The Feel Good Factor(22)

I laugh, take a drink, then focus again on the matter at hand. “I’m not suggesting we play house or have set times when you need to return home for dinner, or what have you. But I think we should rise above the fact that we’re attracted to each other and solve this problem like grown-ups.”

His eyes narrow, blazing darkly. He shakes his head.

“What? No?”

He sets down his wine, stalks toward me, and takes my glass. He puts it on the counter. He threads his hands around my neck, cupping the back of it. My blood runs neon-hot, and my body turns electric.

His face is inches away, and I can feel his breath on me. I can smell the chardonnay, and the man, and oh God, I can tell he’s aroused too.

He’s barely touching me, but I can feel how hard he is.

My lady parts tingle, and I’m hot, wet, and wildly aroused.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he growls. “What this is? It’s not attraction. It’s stronger. More intense. It’s red-hot fucking desire. It’s raw and it’s carnal, and it’s so much dirtier than attraction.”

And I’m so much more turned on than I was a few seconds ago.

He lets go of me. I can’t feel the ground. I reach behind me for the counter, needing to hold on.

“But we can’t give in to it.” My voice cracks as I try to speak around the fog of desire.

“I know that.”

“We need ground rules,” I insist. “Like, we share the kitchen, but you don’t come down the hallway to my bedroom without permission. And I won’t go up your stairwell without your permission.”

His eyes darken with a dirty playfulness. “You can come up my stairwell anytime, kitten.”

“I’m being serious.”

“Me too.”

“Derek.”

“Fine. You can come up the stairs, but no fucking.”

“No fucking and no foreplay,” I add, though I’m pretty sure the way he touched my neck was melt-my-undies-off foreplay.

“That leaves . . . kissing?” he asks.

A smile teases at my lips. “Well, we do need to practice.”

“We absolutely need to practice.”

“The contest is important for my potential promotion,” I add.

“And I can’t let you kiss anyone else.”

“I don’t want to kiss anyone else.”

“I don’t either.” He grabs his wine and downs the rest of the glass. “So we’ll live together, not fuck, not engage in foreplay, just kiss.”

Too bad he just turned my legs to jelly with one seductive touch. But I do my best to keep my eyes on the prize. “Those are the rules. No mercy. No sympathy. We follow them, plain and simple.”

I extend a hand to shake, and he takes mine in his, yanking me close, but not touching. I hear myself whimper, begging for him to cop a feel.

“We can do this. We can definitely make this work. Also, thank you.” His tone is tender and earnest, and the gratitude in it tugs on my heart. “I’ve been dying at Jodie’s home, and I can’t wait to spread out and sleep on a proper mattress.”

I smile, glad I can help. “And you will love it.”

Our hands are still joined. We’re still shaking and not letting go. He grips my hand tighter, his gaze straying to my lips. “But maybe we should enter the contest in the sweet category instead of the most passionate one.”

“I can do sweet.”

He drops my hand, cups my cheeks, tilts my head back, and dusts his soft, enticing lips across mine.

It’s the polar opposite of yesterday’s kiss. A soft, sweet whisper of a kiss. A chaste kiss. A kiss fit for a public square, a library, a dinner out. A kiss you can take home to mama.

But there’s nothing chaste about my body’s reaction.

Nothing sweet about the fire in my belly and the heat pulsing madly between my legs.

When he lets go, I blink, dazed. “Let me show you to your room.”

He gestures toward the kitchen doorway, letting me walk ahead of him. I make my way to the staircase, and when I take the first step, he calls out, “Perri?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

I turn around, cataloging the naughty glint in his eyes. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”





13





Derek





I wake up feeling like Mark Zuckerberg.

At least, I bet that dude wakes up like the sun is shining for him.

Billionaires must feel fantastic in the morning, stretching their arms, enjoying their downy-ass pillows and fluffy-as-a-feather ten-thousand-thread-count sheets.

Or wait—do they sleep on greenbacks? Roll around on top of large bills all night?

Regardless, I’m sure they’re comfortable at night, and I bet they feel rested as a hairy armadillo. My niece told me those little roly-polies sleep twenty hours a day, so they’re another creature who are surely some well-rested mo-fos.

I wake feeling something else too. An early riser. No surprise, there’s my clockwork morning wood.

But it’s a brand-new day, because none of my sister’s kids jump on me on the couch.

Halle-privacy-please-lujah.