My head is descending like I have no control over it, and she’s tilting her head back as if in waiting, the smile fading, her lips parting. Warning bells clang in my brain. What am I doing? I think I’m going to kiss her.

Yep, I’m definitely going to kiss her and find out what those delicious lips finally taste like. And when I finish kissing her, I’m going to press my face into her hair and breathe deep her addictive scent. Inhale it until it fills my lungs and makes my head spin. I can smell her now, her fragrance wrapping all around me, drugging me, and I close my eyes just as my mouth settles on hers.

The kiss is soft. Light. Simple. I’m testing her, testing myself. She doesn’t run, doesn’t so much as jerk in my hold. No, it’s worse. She should pull away from me and slap my face. Or at the very least, stomp on my foot, tell me I’m a bastard and that she quits. I’d let her go because it’s the right thing to do.

Pulling her into my arms and kissing her is the absolute wrong thing to do.

Instead, she sighs against my lips. The softest, sexiest little sound I think I’ve ever heard in my life and then her hands are smoothing up my chest, curving around my shoulders as she steps closer, clinging to me as if for dear life.

That’s it. The sign I’ve been looking for despite the flash warning repeating in my head:

Step away, step away, step the fuck away, asshole.

I ignore it. I can’t resist her. I don’t want to resist her. All those soft, delicious curves press against me, her breasts to my chest, her legs tangling with mine. She’s taller with those fuck-me heels on and I’m tempted to slide my hands down, curve them around her ass and see what she might do.

With the way she’s responding to my mouth on hers, I have a feeling she’d like it.

The kiss is still simple, the both of us seem to be waiting for the other to make the first move. I revel in the simplicity for a minute, wanting to etch this moment into my mind, so I don’t ever forget it. The way she feels in my arms. The little sounds she makes in the back of her throat, a combination of sighs and whimpers that are beyond arousing. She tastes like mint, sweet and fresh, and I slant my head, parting my lips, ready to take it deeper.

But unbelievably, she beats me to the punch, opening to me as her tongue darts out for a tentative lick against mine—a wicked little flick that sends my body into overdrive, my cock straining against my trousers. Fuck, I want her. I could drown in her.

I’m done for.

Bryn

OH GOD, HE’S kissing me. Really kissing me, our tongues doing a delicate dance that gets deeper, wetter, hotter with every second that passes. I clutch at him, slide my hands from his shoulders to circle around his neck, one hand in the thick, soft hair at his nape, holding him to me.

His muscular arms tighten around my waist, like steel bands holding me close and my skin tingles at the possessive way he touches me, kisses me. This is exactly what I’ve been wanting for months, since I first started working with Matt. When he walked into my life and pretty much saved it, so I didn’t have to pack my bags and return to Cactus, totally ashamed and a complete failure, just like everyone thought I would be.

I’ve fought this dizzying attraction for Matt for what feels like forever, especially this last week, and I think he has too. Over dinner, the connection only seemed to grow, like a tangible presence.

Why else would he so readily kiss me? I know it was an accident, us running into each other, but it feels so natural, being in his arms. He couldn’t deny he was attracted to me any longer and now, alone in the dark, hushed, quality of the office, with no one else close by, we can finally give in to our attraction and take it a step further.

“Bryn.” His voice is agonized, sending shivers down my spine when he whispers against my lips. “We shouldn’t do this,” he says, breaking our kiss completely.

I stroke the back of his head, still lost in the lingering sensation of his mouth moving over mine. God, the man can kiss. I’m thankful he’s got a hold of me, or I’d probably melt onto the floor. What did he say again? “Wait . . . what?”

“We shouldn’t do this,” he repeats, pressing his lips to the spot where my pulse throbs wildly at my neck before he withdraws the slightest bit, putting distance between us.

Staring up at him, I realize he’s dead serious. His expression is somber, his eyes almost . . . pained. He’s putting a stop to this.

And making me feel like a humiliated fool.

“Fine.” I take a deep breath and drop my hands from where I gripped his neck. “You’re right. We should definitely not do this.”

I sound like every silly romance I love to read when I’m not working like a dog. And I’m so pitiful it’s embarrassing.

“I’m—sorry, Bryn. I got carried away.” He lets go of me, and I step backward, feeling bereft without being in his embrace.

“I’m sorry too.” I smooth my hand over my hair, then jerk my top back into place, running my hands over my skirt. My hands are shaking, and I release another shuddery exhale, desperate to get myself back together and quick.

No way do I want him to see how much he affects me, especially after he so soundly rejected me.

He bends down and snatches his wallet from the floor, flipping it back open and peeling out two twenty-dollar bills from within. “Is this enough?”

“For what?” My mind races. What is he giving me money for? He better not be paying me off because of the stupid kiss. And if he thinks my lips are only worth forty dollars, then I’m completely insulted.

“For the dinner you paid for,” he says, his voice gentle as he holds the twenties out toward me. “Is it enough?”

“It’s fine,” I snap, snatching the money from his fingers and clutching it tight in my fist. I feel so incredibly stupid I don’t know what else to say.

So I say nothing at all. Just turn my back on him, grab my purse from where I left it on the corner of my desk and flee the building, never once looking over my shoulder. I don’t even notice the tears streaming down my cheeks until I’m in my car, sitting in the driver’s seat and desperately trying to stab my key in the ignition yet somehow missing every single time.

I burst out crying in earnest, my vision blurring, and finally get the key in. I turn it, the engine starting with its usual dependable, gentle roar. I press my forehead against the steering wheel and let the tears fall silently. No sobbing, no cursing, no shaking my fist at myself or the man who kissed me so sweetly, so passionately, I don’t know if I’ll ever experience another kiss like it again.

Bright headlights shine on me every time a vehicle passes, and I wince, lifting my head. I swipe at the tears dampening my cheeks, blowing out a frustrated breath. I need to get out of here. Sitting around crying and feeling sorry for myself is not the way to handle this. I’ve always been a pull-myself-up-by-the-bootstraps kind of girl. It’s the Texan in me; the tough take-no-prisoners attitude my grandma’s instilled in me ever since I was a little girl.

A pervert chases after me and tries to abduct me? No problem, spit in his eye. My old boss tries to get in my pants? No worries, just quit. A variety of Hollywood jerks proposition me for a blowjob?

Yeah. Just walk. Find another job. Find another boss, another man with too much power who knows how to quietly devastate me with just a look. A touch. A kiss.

Throwing my car into reverse, I back out of the parking lot and drive out of there so fast, my tires spin, spitting up gravel. Determination steels my spine, fuels my anger. I refuse to let someone make me feel weak all because I’m a woman. I keep doing that. It’s been a pattern my entire life. I change my look to stop men from seeing a pretty face, then let myself be convinced it would be smart to go back to my usual ways and of course, I get in trouble. But forget it.