By Emma Hart
I loved him more than life.
He broke me and he didn't even know it.
I ran from him.
He didn't chase me.
He never needed to, because he knew I'd come back.
He was right.
Death brought me home to him.
Drop dead gorgeous and filthy-mouthed with a smile that turns saints to sinners.
A casanova to his core.
My ex-best friend.
And the bad boy whose reputation precedes him—the same reputation I'm tasked with turning to gold... Or so they think.
It was that or she was laughingme...
"I have no idea why I'm laughing," she breathed. Every other word was broken by a terrible attempt at keeping her laughter inside. "But thank you. Whatever you did, I needed that."
"Happy to be of service."
"I'm sure you are."
Slowly, I raised my eyebrows. "Was that an innuendo?"
She ran her hand through her hair, pushing it right back from her face, and rested her hand behind her neck. "No, but of course you took it like that."
"If it sounds like an innuendo..."
"It's proof that you have a dirty mind, Brett Walker. Nothing else."
"I don't need the innuendo to prove that."
"As evidenced by your obsession with my boots."
"Ah," I smiled, "The fuck me boots."
Her jaw dropped, but she was kind of smiling too. "Fuck me boots? You call my boots the fuck me boots?"
"Shit. Did I say that out loud?"
She nodded, desperately fighting a smile, which only made me smile wider. "Loud and clear, I'm afraid."
"Look," I said, lighting pulling on a bit of her hair. "If you wear boots that go up to your knees with heels, I can only assume you're inviting me to fuck you, okay? That's why they're fuck me boots."
"Okay, now this makes sense." She dropped her hand to her lap and blinked at me. "I wore those boots to our disastrous first meeting. Is that why you're bugging me with the dirty stuff? My boots invited you to fuck me?"
"No. I'm 'bugging' you 'with the dirty stuff' because I want to fuck you. The boots are a bonus."
"You...want to fuck me."
I stared at her flatly. "Yes, Lani. I want to fuck you, and you have no idea how many ways I've imagined it."
"Imagined it," she echoed.
"You're much less sassy when you're tired. I'm not sure I like it. This conversation would be way more fun if you were tearing me a new one."
That snapped her out of what I could only describe as a daze. "All right. Fine. I'm going to bed. Alone," she added as she stood. "Thank you for your sweater. I'll add that to my list of Brett's Gentlemanly Things."
I got up and took the sweater from her. "Look, I'll even open the door for you." I stepped around her and clasped the door handle. I slowly turned it and opened the door.
"Nice." She'd apparently found her sass again, because the word was injected with a cocky sarcasm. "Goodnight, Brett."
She stopped when she was one step inside the door. "Yeah?"
I swept my arm around her and spun her against the open front door. My grip on it kept it firmly in place as her back collided with the wood, and she inhaled at the exact same moment. Lust burned through my veins, and I took one step in front of her, pinning her to the door.
"What are you doing?" Her voice was breathy, and as I dropped my gaze to her chest, the quickness of her breathing was impossible to miss. Her chest was rising and falling like crazy.
I dipped my head so my lips ghosted over her cheek on their way to her ear. "In case you were wondering," I murmured against her earlobe. "Against the door is one of the ways I've imagined fucking you. With your legs around my waist, your nails in my shoulders, and your wet pussy hugging my cock."
She exhaled on a shudder. "Asshole," she whispered.
I placed my fingertips on her heaving chest, right above her heart. The quick dum-dum-dum of its racing beat told me everything I needed to know--she wanted me as much as she hated me.
I stepped back with a smirk curving my lips. "Sweet dreams, kitten."