For a moment Connor just examines my face in silence. There’s a strange tension in him, a stillness, like a held breath but in his entire body. Then he abruptly swings around in his seat so he’s facing me, his massive thighs on either side of my bar stool, his booted feet planted on the floor.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, my voice high with panic.
“Got something to say to you. It’s important, so don’t talk until the end.”
He looks dangerously intense. His dark eyes are heated, drilling into mine. His cheeks are flushed from the fire, or from something else, but I don’t have time to think about what that something else might be because he opens his mouth and starts to speak, and my brain faints dead away, leaving me to fend for myself.
“I want you. Bad. Don’t know exactly why, you’re a complete pain in my ass and pretty much the most contrary, foul-tempered woman I’ve ever met, and you’ve made it really clear what you think about me, but every time I look at you I have an almost overpowering urge to touch you, kiss you, do a lot of bad things to you, and I don’t know how to manage it. Yeah, it might be more prudent for me to keep this shit to myself, but I know that when you don’t talk about shit it festers, gets worse, and if the way I feel about you gets any worse I won’t be able to put my goddamn shoes on in the morning. So I’m putting it out there.”
He takes a breath. Deeply shocked, I stare at him with my mouth open, my heart up in my throat.
“We’re both professionals. We have a job to do. And I don’t mix business with pleasure. Ever. But the way I figure it, we’ve got one more night until the work actually starts, and if I don’t do something to get you straight in my head I won’t be able to do the job at all.”
He stops abruptly. Then he waits, watching me with unwavering intensity as I attempt to digest what just happened.
I whisper in disbelief, “You’re propositioning me?”
His gaze drops to my lips. When he looks back into my eyes, his own are burning. “You liked that kiss.”
He gives me time to deny it, but I don’t. How could I? We both know I’d be lying.
He adds, “And you called me hot, so I know you don’t think I’m a complete troll, even though you act like you do.”
“That was an accident.”
“Yep.” He nods. “And you fuckin’ hated yourself for it. Which is why I know it was true.”
Things are happening in my body. My nipples harden, my breath quickens, there is a distinctive throb and ache between my legs. All because this jarhead I hate just told me he wants to do bad things to me.
Bad things. Dear God, were any two sexier words ever spoken?
About The Author
J.T. Geissinger is an award winning and best-selling author of dark, sexy romance.
She is the recipient of the Prism Award for Best First Book, the Golden Quill Award for Best Paranormal/Urban Fantasy, and was a finalist for the prestigious RITA© Award from the Romance Writers of America. Her work has also finaled in the Booksellers’ Best, National Readers’ Choice, and Daphne du Maurier Awards.
She lives in California with her husband, on whom all her heroes are based.