Shatter(7)

By: Lola Taylor

In her rush to her feet, her halter top had ridden down, revealing plump breasts just waiting to be squeezed. The lush, round mounds would fit nicely in his hands. And dear God, she hadn’t worn a bra.

He had to get inside his office, now.

With a curt nod and a grunt, he turned and shut himself in the office.

His heart pounded as he leaned against the door. What the hell? You’d think he was going through puberty all over again.

Maybe he should kick her out. It would be better for everyone involved.

With his hands running through his hair, he almost jumped when a timid knock came from the door.

Immediately hoping it was her, and realizing too late what an idiot that made him, he rushed to open the door.

She stood there, clothes rumpled, hair a mess.

And far too tempting for his liking.

He needed to get rid of her before he dragged her into his office and did something they’d both regret.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “Do you have the stairs cleaned yet?”

She blinked, surprised. “No.”

“Don’t come back until you do.”

Slam!

He felt like a douchebag for doing it, but so help him, he was desperate.

He froze and listened for her reaction. A few seconds later, he heard a growl, followed by a stream of curses as she stomped off.

He exhaled and slumped to the floor, harder than ever.

Hot damn. Her little temper tantrum had turned him on even more.

Houston, we have a problem.





HER LIFE SHOULD be a sitcom. Seriously, some producer somewhere should look into it. At least then she could get paid a shit-ton of money for having all this random shit happen to her.

She’d never had a door slammed in her face before, especially by a hot man, and it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. Especially when she’d been about to thank him. In a huff, she’d turned and marched back up to her apartment for some supplies. It was going to be a long, miserable night.

A puzzling mixture of relief at him not kicking her out and anger at him dismissing her so rudely twisted her insides the whole time she’d cleaned. And when she got angry, she did one of two things—curse or cry. Sometimes both.

Feeling more on the cursing order, because she was too tired to cry, she cussed out the floor, the brush, and the rusty bucket Mr. Sexy had slammed down in front of her only to retreat to his office a few seconds later.

Seriously, what the hell was his problem? The guy was an asshole.

What was more irritating was that despite her knowledge of said assholery, she still found her panties to be stained with want once she’d finished cleaning, and it wasn’t the cleaner that turned her on.

Her body seriously didn’t know what was good for it sometimes. The generous love handles that clung to her sides were testament to that, at least when it came to food.

She sighed. She couldn’t blame her body’s lapse of judgment. She hadn’t, after all, had sex with anyone in ages. Sure, she’d lusted after guys, but that’s all it was—looking at pretty eye candy and never touching it.

But from the moment she’d laid eyes on Mr. Sexy, something carnal had awoken inside her.

And it was very, very hungry.

By the time she’d gotten the stupid stairwell all cleaned up, it was well into the night. Becca had texted her a gazillion times, wondering where the hell she was for their workout. Apologizing for being a terrible friend, Amy had changed and gone over to the gym. She hadn’t even had time to shower and wash the paint off, not that she’d seen any point. She was about to get hot and sweaty all over again.

This was going to royally suck. Sweat + exhaustion + hunger = bitchy Amy.

Ugh.

The gym wasn’t far, a short car ride a few blocks from where she lived. She got her membership at half off, thanks to Becca, who knew one of the trainers there. It was the only way Becca had needled her into joining.

Not that she was allergic to exercise equipment, but seeing all the skinny bitches running around, flirting with their overpriced personal trainers with their toned abs and tight asses, made her feel like shit. And, really, how the hell were they so skinny, doing nothing, when she worked her ass off and gained weight?

WTF?

Yeah, so, she’d let herself go. She blamed World War Michael. The devastation it had caused showed in the extra plushness around her thighs, arms, and ass. Changing her physique was all part of Becca’s rehabilitation program for her.

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