Page 16 of All Mixed Up

Let me be clear.

Drilled.

As if our connection was filling his head with the same fantasy as my own. Our gazes entangled like this in a much different circumstance. With both of us naked on those damn luxury sheets of his. With his grip on my shoulders a necessary thing, securing me in place as he ruthlessly rutted his cock into my—

Ohhh, holy shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Damn it. What was going on here? Was this real chemistry, or was I just hormonal? When was my next period due? Maybe this was just a case of overseas travel, eager estrogen, and a Frenchman used to charming the panties off of—well, every female he met. And here I was, dreaming of being the next conquest in his Corinthian leather conquest journal.

No. Not dreaming.

Hoping.

Already envisioning…

Shut it down, Juls. Now!

A questioning ripple crossed his face, as if he’d heard my inner lashing but not the conflict that had led to it, before he ordered his power drill stare back into place. “Your phone signal was a challenge,” he went on to explain. “But your apartment—”

“You went to my apartment?” The runaway train of my libido smashed a lead wall. I glared with matching shock, though the man reacted as if I’d simply told him his fly was down—and he’d planned it that way.

“You mean my apartment?”

I was so busy doubling down on the fume, his reply didn’t register at first. When it did, I stepped away and narrowed my eyes. “What the hell?” Was he purposely playing cheeky? But in the next second, I changed up my tune as fast as I could. “Ohhh, hell.” And then choke-chuffed. “The…the place I’m staying,” I finally stuttered out. “It’s…”

“Mine.” He stepped forward. Then dug those beautiful hands into his back pockets while allowing a shrug to hint at his shoulders. “One of many I own in the city, offered to Milo when the Avanti project began to…” Well, damn it. Now he had to add to that shot of youthfulness by pursing those full lips with authentic confusion. “How do you say…errrm…avait des ailes? Had its wings?”

“Took flight?” I supplied.

“Ah. Oui. Took flight. Merci.” But the next second, he ditched student for teacher once more. His jaw hardened. The sternness climbed, taking over the mesmerizing depths of his eyes. “So, you see, I was not playing creepy evil stalker man.”

And just like that, his inner disciplinarian had my saucy schoolgirl romping out again. “Oh, not at all,” I riposted from smirking lips. I ignored his scowl to plunge on. “So now that we’ve ruled out ‘creepy evil stalker man,’ tell me what I am dealing with here.” Oh, screw it. I gave in to a full-on giggle. “S’il vous plait,” I snickered out. “Monsieur.”

Serious relief flooded in as he looked up—mirroring my tentative grin. “Hmmm,” he murmured. “Perhaps we should just say…concerned friend. And semi-boss-man.”

“Semi-boss man?” I tilted my head and folded my arms. The move danced us back to flipping the teacher/student thing again, but I was enjoying the mischief in his eyes too much to refrain. “But I know your secrets, mister. You do remember?”

“Some.”

I didn’t doubt the truth behind that hedge. The man was an enigma, and clearly wanted it to stay that way. Fine by me. It had to be. If he got to keep his secrets, I got to keep mine. Things were best that way.

“Well, you’re good by me.” I held up a hand. “I’ll even let you pinky swear me to it.”

I extended my littlest digit. For a long second, he just stared at it. I glowered back. Was the guy going to be a huge douche about things now?

But then comprehension collided with my cerebral cortex.

The guy didn’t get it. Really and truly.

“Come on, Paget,” I teased. “You have pinky fingers, right? So pinky swear me in.”

I pushed my finger out a little further.

But in the doing, should have listened to my psyche’s second crash of recognition.

The instinct that ordered me not to push him on this. That screamed at me to drop the game that second, and write off the contact as a dumb little piece of American silliness.