Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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I MIGHT BE THE ONE who initiates our kiss—who has the courage to close the tiny scrap of distance between us and press my lips against his—but God, it's Max who really takes charge. He kisses me back like he's starved, like he's been oxygen-deprived all night and, finally, he can breathe again. The idea that I've done that, that I can wield such a powerful effect on this man, makes me feel emboldened, downright giddy.
The muscular arm around my waist tightens, and his free hand sinks into my hair, holding me in place for his mouth. His lips slant over mine, angling first one way and then the other. Liquid heat pools in my belly as he deepens the kiss, his tongue flicking, rolling, over mine. He devours me, tasting like whiskey, warm fields, and new beginnings. And I want it—more of this, more of him.
My fingers curl into the soft fabric of his shirt, gripping broad shoulders that may as well be marble beneath my hands, but it's not to push him away, like I probably should. It's for purchase, to stabilise myself, because this kiss . . . it single-handedly shorts out my senses and knocks me off balance.
You're kissing Max Griffin.
Your ex-boss.
Mr. Grouchy, for fuck's sake.
And he's kissing you back!
This isn't normal. This isn't right. And yet, nothing about us—what's happening right now—feels wrong.
My brain is slow to process everything, barely able to keep up with my lust-addled body. They're operating on completely different playing fields, but I'm determined to make sense of what's going on here, to jumpstart my frazzled, harried system.
The sane part of me comprehends that I'm kissing the same man I've claimed to loathe with every fibre of my being, who I've treated like public enemy number one at the office. At the very minimum, avoided at all costs.
I might be incredibly smart when it comes to my business dealings, but this is, without a doubt, the worst idea I've ever had. I think it even trumps my e-mail mishap.
I really thought this kiss—giving into this unbearable sexual tension—might help this spark fizzle out. But nothing about this is lukewarm. It's like I've poured a litre of petrol on this rip-roaring fire, and I'm just watching helplessly as my professional life burns. At this point, it may as well be a pile of ash.
So much for my I'll-never-sleep-with-my-boss rule. It's practically Business 101, and I've ripped up the handbook.
Maybe Max had bad breath, I reasoned. Maybe he was a terrible kisser. Maybe the chemistry that's been there since the beginning wasn't worth it in the end. Honestly, I was hoping for something—anything—to douse this flame.
