Hard No: Secret Baby Enemies to Lovers Romance by Hazel Parker (fun to read txt) 📗

I’m definitely stalled in my righteousness at this point. “How do you know all this?” I ask.

“Like I said, there is a world that exists outside the doors of your restaurants.”

“You sound like you respect him,” I say by way of deflection.

“What I hear, in business, he’s a shark, but then someone in his position has to be. Supposedly, he’s only a true asshole to people who nearly burn down his home.”

“Eat me,” I say.

“That’s Stone’s job,” she replies, still smiling.

That flusters me a little. “What?” I cleverly reply.

“Oh, come on…you weren’t holed up in the ladies’ room of the country club just because you were embarrassed.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, Stone’s one fine-looking individual, so much so that even you can see it, and that got under your skin.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She folds her arms. “Tell me he’s not gorgeous. But I warn you, the Pinocchio look won’t suit you.”

“I have to get back to work,” I say.

“Nice bit of dodging there. Call me later?”

“Will do. I’ll be up late tonight.”

“Make sure you don’t get to bed too late,” Tira says as a parting shot. “You want to leave yourself enough time for some good dreams.”

Despite Tira’s directive, I’m up until one o’clock anyway, checking and double-checking restaurant plans for the rest of the week, especially Saturday and Sunday.

Why Sunday? asks the devil on my shoulder. Planning on being up late the night before?

“You and Tira should get together and go bowling,” I growl, stalking off to the shower. My back and neck feel full of knots, and I have a feeling I’m going to run out all my hot water trying to loosen them enough for me to sleep tonight.

Under the spray and steam, I reflect on everything Tira had said, especially her observation that Stone was a good-looking individual.

She was right, of course. Between his physical good looks and his smart mode of dress, he was hard to look away from. Unless you are, say, hiding out in a bathroom stall to avoid him.

Why was I getting so worked up like this? I hadn’t spent that much time around him—standing on the sidewalk while his kitchen burned as a result of my blunder didn’t count, I felt—so why was he affecting me so intensely?

I realize that intensity is exactly the issue here. I have never met anyone with as much intensity, as much magnetism, as Stone. It practically radiates off him in waves. It makes all the men I’ve known up until this point almost into one-dimensional cutouts.

And you’re going right back into the lion’s den, I think.

I have another realization. It’s that the idea of being in his company again, besides terrifying me, also excites me.

What would it be like if he were to turn that smoldering intensity completely on me? What would it be like to feel his strong hands on my shoulders, sliding over the tops of my arms, down to my waist?

I close my eyes. It’s such a delicious thought that I can almost feel it, the pressure just above my hips on either side, just like two hands resting there. Only they don’t stay at rest there, they continue moving down and around, stealing down between my legs.

As my fingers begin to move, this time, Trent Stone’s face isn’t a fleeting image in my mind. It’s there from the outset, and unlike last time, it doesn’t alarm me. Rather, it adds to the darts of pleasure that are already shooting through me.

My fingers are moving faster now, my other hand at my breast. My skin is so alive right now that the pulse of water on my neck could almost be mistaken for a kiss, the trickles of water down my front the light touch of fingertips.

Not that we would be doing anything lightly if this were the real thing, I’m sure. I don’t know if Stone has ever done anything lightly in his life. That’s okay with me. Sometimes a girl wants more than to be made love to.

I pinch one nipple, hard, and my knees go a little weak. I slip a finger into myself, something I don’t often do when I masturbate, but I want to feel something substantial, something solid.

It simultaneously works and makes things worse. I’m worried I won’t be able to hit my peak, the water will run cold, and I will be left feeling frustrated and unfulfilled.

I press my body to the shower wall, imagining that it’s Stone pushing me against it from behind. The tiles are cool, which lights up my skin even more. I imagine what are surely his tight abs against my lower back, his hardness against my ass as his hands continue their work.

I add another finger, and that brings me over the top. This time, my knees threaten to give way under me entirely. I cry out, the sound loud and echoey in the confines of the shower. I have to release my breast and plant a hand on the wall to steady myself.

My hair is hanging in wet draggles in my eyes, my shoulders are slumped, and I’m breathing hard. In spite of the cooling water splashing across me, my face feels hot and flushed. Hell, I feel flushed all over.

And all that from just a few minutes of thinking about him, I note. And you’ll be seeing him again in a few days.

I’m able to shut off the water, even though leaning over to work the dials makes me feel a little dizzy. Getting out of the shower proves to be more of a chore. My legs are shaky, unsteady. When I reach to take the towel off the bar by the shower, I see that my hand is trembling slightly, too.

Although I