Fuck, it’s good to see you?

I haven’t spoken to this guy in nearly a week and that’s the first thing he says to me?

Biting the inside of my cheek, I push away from the pillar and stride toward my Civic, irritation flaring through my veins. Mateo moves too, stepping from between our vehicles to stand beneath the flickering lights overhead. Seeing him up close, I pause again a few feet from the bumper of my car.

Other than the picture of him that’s still emblazoned in my thoughts, this is the most dressed down I’ve ever seen him. His black hair is messy and he's wearing jeans—the expensive, slim-fit kind with clean lines and dark indigo stitching—classic black and white Chuck Taylors, and a black cotton V-neck T-shirt. I zero in on his shoulders and feel a jolt in the pit of my stomach remembering the way his muscles flexed beneath my fingertips last Saturday night.

I don’t think any amount of praying will scrub that memory from my brain.

Hugging my arms over my chest, I grant him a curt nod then continue to the driver’s side of my car. He follows close behind, and I hold my breath when the aroma of his cologne reaches out to me, overpowering the stench of motor oil in the air. Overpowering everything.

The front of his body connects with the side of mine, and my posture stiffens. He’s so warm—so warm and hard—and it takes an insane amount of effort not to let his proximity overwhelm me. “Jamila,” he starts. Before I can stop myself, I lift a finger between us, grazing it against his lip.

“Don’t.”

“Why?” The vibration of the word on my fingertip sends a thrill through me. I drag in a breath, so he asks the question again, this time kissing my finger.

“Because I’m tired and I’m not going to do this with you tonight.”

In one swift motion, he reaches up, curling his fingers around my wrist, and spins me around to look at him. There’s a look in his eyes— one part pain and the other part pleasure—and I clench my fingers, drawing his attention to my hands. He smirks because he knows he’s gotten to me.

When he leans away and starts to bring his focus back up to mine, he pauses briefly on the whimsical, multi-colored paw print design on my scrub top. “You and your scrubs,” he whispers. I’m gritting my teeth by the time he meets my stare. “I’ve wanted to see you all night. Hell, beautiful, I’ve wanted to see you every night for the last four days.”

“Technically, it's morning.” The corner of his mouth quirks at the iron in my voice. He lets go of my wrists but doesn’t make any effort to give me room to breathe. I square my shoulders and jab my finger into the center of his chest. “You can't show up like this. Not when you go off the radar for days. You don’t get to disappear, Mateo, and then show up at my job when you feel like seeing me. I don’t give a damn what we are to each other or what we did or how much fun we might have. You. Don’t. Get. To. Do. That.”

His thumb and forefinger stroke my chin, and I’m struck by the gentleness of his touch. “Did it bother you that I haven’t been around?” he demands, his voice just as smooth as his touch.

“No, not at all.” But the truth is obvious in the quiver of my voice. Not hearing from Bailon after what had happened in his kitchen had bothered me far more than it ever should have. I had thought of him too often and too vividly for my liking, and that fact is yet another dangerous reminder that he could break me without even trying—all in the name of good, filthy fun. Closing my eyes so my emotions don’t betray me, I lick my tongue over my lips. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve texted you several times tonight. You didn’t read them?”

“No, I’ve been working and had my phone off. Couldn’t it have waited until morning?”

“Technically,” he drawls, his voice sexy and deep, “it is morning. I was worried about you, Flowerbomb. Since I just got home, and I’m still on—”

My eyes open a little only to narrow curiously. “Since you just got home? Where have you been?”

“If you’d learn to keep your mouth closed, beautiful, I would have told you I’ve been in California for the last several days.” My frown deepens, so he explains, “One of my clients was offered a new role over the weekend, and I flew in on Monday morning to start negotiations. I left my phone on the plane, so I had to get a loaner while I was out there.” He goes silent, giving me plenty of time to digest his information before he reduces his voice to a murmur and adds, “I had hoped you’d call so I could have your number, but you’ve apparently been a busy girl while I was away and didn’t have time for me.”

Is he kidding? All my time has been spent thinking of him.

“You lost your phone?” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, raw and raspy. It betrays me, laying out all the emotions I’d tried to disguise just a couple of minutes ago. He reaches behind him into the back pocket of his jeans. When he pulls out a new iPhone, my chin dips down and I draw my lower lip between my teeth. Last weekend, he talked on an Android when his sister called, and I suddenly feel like an idiot for letting myself get so worked up about his lack of contact.

Especially since we’re clearly not involved.

“I read you wrong,” I say, and he gives me a one-shouldered shrug before closing the sliver of space between our bodies. His other hand comes up to my face, framing my cheek so he can tilt my eyes up to his. Amusement dances behind his brown irises. “I didn’t want to be the one to call because I didn’t want to seem …”

“I wouldn’t have thought that, so you should have called.” He bends his head, the tip of his nose brushing mine. “Fuck, I even had Sonora on the lookout just in case you contacted the office looking for me. And then there’s your Instagram.”

“My Instagram,” I repeat, shuddering because his tongue flicks over one corner of my mouth. “What about my—”

“Don’t you check your messages? I’ve sent you two telling you to call me.” My pulse pounds furiously in my throat, so I answer him with a shake of my head. He lets out an irritated sigh and slips his hands around to the nape of my neck. I gasp when he tugs my ponytail holder out, releasing my curls from their messy bun to fall around my shoulders. “Now, I’m going to ask you again. Were you bothered when you incorrectly assumed I was blowing off finishing what we started?”

The tiny hairs on my arms stand on end as he strokes his fingertips along my nape, but I manage to get out the words without turning into a puddle at his feet. “A little.”

“A little?”

“Of course, I was irritated,” I churn out. “All you talked about for weeks is wanting a distraction and the second I invite you into my apartment, you run away.”

“I didn’t run away, Jamila. I—” He grimaces, working his teeth together as he searches for the right words. When he finally finds them, they sink beneath my skin, tangling into a ball of desire that settles in my core. “I would have fucked you hard and rough if I had come into your apartment. I wouldn’t have been gentle, wouldn’t have taken it slow, and I would have wanted you that way all night. What you gave me instead? That little taste? That was plenty of a distraction for me that night.”

I clear my throat, but he stops me before I can look away, holding my face in place between his hands. “I think you could have summed that up with I wouldn’t have been gentle.” Because God knows I’ll die if one of my co-workers wanders out here and overhears King Swing-A-Ling giving me an earful of filthy promises.

Stroking his hand from my face to my collarbone, he laughs—a dark, rich, sensual sound that teases my ears. “I prefer to give it to you like it is.”

“I can tell.”

“I want more time with you.”

Oh, my heart, here we go again. “I work again tonight and all weekend,” I say huskily.

“Then this afternoon?” He rests his forehead to mine, and I can taste mint when he asks, “Lunch at my office?”

“Just lunch?” He bobs his head. I’m not sure if I believe him, but it doesn’t stop the next words from falling from my lips. “Fine, I’ll see you at one.”

* * *

“You're not wearing your scrubs,” Bailon muses several hours later after Sonora guides me into his office. He motions for me to shut the door behind me, and I wait until my back is turned to fire off a retort.

“And you're not dressed in lounge pants—imagine that.”

“Someone’s feisty today. Not enough sleep?”

If he only knew.

I had gone home immediately after we parted ways in the parking garage. Although I had hoped to go right to bed, I had tossed and turned for hours after I found the Instagram messages he said he sent. He was telling the truth. He hadn’t simply shrugged off contacting me like I let myself assume all week. There were two messages—one from Tuesday and another on Wednesday afternoon—and both were so sexually charged, I found myself kicking my sheets away from my body. I eventually fell asleep a little after nine, and when the sound of the doorbell dragged me awake at noon, I made up my mind to ask him for a rain check on the way to answer it.

I was afraid that in my current state, I’d make decisions that were too stupid when it came to him.

That was before I opened the door to the flowers.

They weren't like the last arrangement he sent. Instead, these were a blend of roses and freesia, jasmine and orchids. It wasn’t until after I climbed out of the shower and my gaze caught the half-full perfume bottle on one of my bathroom shelves that it finally hit me: He had sent me the combination that makes up my perfume. I had stared at the rose-colored bottle for what felt like an eternity—until the emblem started to cloud my vision—and then I quickly got dressed for lunch.

Now, he clears his throat behind me and I splay my fingers on the door. “Did you get the flowers?”

“I did.” I face him, rubbing my hands over the backs of my jeans as I approach his desk. “They were beautiful.”

“You didn’t throw them away?” he asks.

“What sane woman throws away perfectly good flowers?” Sliding into the chair on the other side of his desk, I cock my brows at the travel itinerary in front of him. “Going somewhere fun?”

“Back to Los Angeles,” he says, stretching one arm across his chest to massage his fingers over his shoulder. He makes a pained expression as his hand works against his flesh. “I’m still negotiating that contract for my client. He was a last-minute replacement in a movie—big budget. It’s going to make his career.”

“Oh.” That one word seems to echo off the walls surrounding us, and it earns me a cocky grin.

“Don’t look so sad, Flowerbomb. I promise I have time to teach you another lesson or two before I take off for the next few weeks—if you’re up for it, that is.”

Despite the heat that caresses my body at his promise, I flinch. “You’re going to be in California for a few weeks?”

“Maybe less time. I’ve got some work I need to catch up on in L.A. and I plan to do that while I’m there working on that contract.” There’s a knock at the door, and he excuses himself. I hear him thank Sonora, and then he returns, two bags of takeout dangling from his fingers.

He’s ordered us sandwiches from a nearby deli, and as we eat, I ask him about growing up in El Paso. I’ve been to Texas once when I was ten. We had visited my mom’s sister while she still lived in Houston, but we spent most of the trip indoors since it was July and close to ninety degrees out. I tell Bailon this, almost expecting him to evade the subject of his hometown like he had in his car last week, but a tiny smile dances at the edges of his full lips.

“You’re scared of ninety degree days, Jamila?” he teases, and I shoot him a dark look as I pop a piece of turkey in my mouth. I don’t even bother to correct him on my name because he seems to get off on calling me by my full first name—seems to enjoy reminding me it means beautiful. “After I graduated high school, my grandmother helped me buy this little Honda hatchback. I was so proud of the thing, you know? My first car and I thought I was going to get all the pussy I wanted in it.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “And did you?” When he gives me a look that screams are-you-fucking-kidding-me? I hold up my hands defensively. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were King Panty Crusher even twenty years ago.” Bowing my head, I wave for him to continue. “Please, King PC, enlighten me on the tales of the hatchback and your dick.”

He tugs at the collar of his dress shirt then rubs at his shoulder again. “For such a sweet face, you’ve got a filthy mouth.” I purse my lips together and lift my eyebrows, winning a chuckle from the other side of the desk. “So, this girl I graduated with sneaks me into her house one afternoon. We fuck around for a little while and then her dad catches me with my pants down. Here I am thinking I’m going to make a masterful escape, and then I get to my car to find my steering wheel and dashboard are melting.”

“It was hot enough to melt your steering wheel?” At the skepticism dripping from my voice, he bobs his head. “So, did her father catch you or...”

He snorts. “Fuck no. I burned the hell out of my hands getting away, but I made it out of there alive.” Turning his palms toward his face, he examines his hands. “My fingers still burn every time I think of it.”

“Poor baby,” I tease, taking another bite of my sandwich. “But next time, you can skip the part about what you were doing while your steering wheel was disintegrating and get to the good part.”

“Jealous? And it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.”

Ignoring the part of his comment that oozes innuendo, I place my sandwich on the wrapper and shake my head. “You’re asking if I’m jealous of something that happened when I was, what? Eight? No, Mateo, I can genuinely promise you I’m not jealous and…” My words trail off when I catch him gripping his shoulder again, and a tight frown scrunches my features. “You’ve been doing that all day. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” But he continues to knead his shoulder, flexing and relaxing his muscles. “I made this bet with my client in Los Angeles while I was there. He’s doing a superhero role—you know, intense training and a crazy ass diet. He bet me I couldn’t last through one of the workouts.”

“It looks like the workout beat the shit out of you,” I point out, and he flays me with his gaze. “So, did you last?”

“I won a thousand dollars. And for future reference, I last at everything I do.”

My toes curl in my flip-flops. “Noted.” Unable to take any more of his wincing and massaging, I get up from my seat. His gaze follows my every move as I walk around to his side of the desk, and when I touch his shoulders, his body jerks.

He tilts his head back, his dark eyes imploring. "What are you doing?" That look is back—the one from last night that teeters between pain and pleasure, and desire burns in my belly, low and deep. I clear my throat and send him a look that belies what his stare does to my body.

"It's a massage, Bailon. Normal people indulge in them for relaxation and—"

“Shut up and come here.” Wrapping his fingers around my wrist, he coaxes me around to him, pulling me onto his lap. His hard length presses against my ass, and my throat tightens. He’s big, but I already knew that thanks to the photo. "I don't like massages," he explains.

“Everyone likes massages.”

He shifts the pad of his thumb over a curl resting against my breast. “God, baby. You don’t know me at all because. I. Don’t. Like. Them.” His brow furrowing, he continues stroking until my nipples pebble beneath his touch, and my chest rises and falls. “Massages are a tease. You want to relax me? Indulge me? Pull down your panties. Bend over my desk.”

"Everyone likes massages,” I repeat in a hoarse voice. Mateo grants me a lopsided grin because he knows his words get to me. Ruin me. “Let me go so I can finish."

He lifts his gaze slowly, sensually. The kind of stare that only happens in movies, and I’m witnessing it firsthand, in technicolor—in the office of the one man I shouldn't want a damn thing to do with but I can’t get enough of.

"You can finish." He shifts himself, making sure I’m fully aware of his dick's reaction to me before he scoots me off his lap. I gasp when his hand collides with my ass. "But there sure as fuck better be a happy ending."

“I—” I start, but there’s another knock at his door, and he growls something incoherent.

Sonora pokes her head in anyway. “Your two o’clock appointment is here to see you, and—”

“Send him the fuck away.”

But I grab my bag from the other side of his desk and shoot him a sympathetic smile. “I have to go get dressed for work anyway. Thank you for lunch, Mateo.”

His voice follows behind me as I leave his office. “We’re not finished, Jamila. Not at all.”