shove at his chest automatically before I realized what he was doing; he was tucking my camisole into my skirt. His fingers lingered after the tuck, flat against my belly, as his dark eyes roamed over my face.
There was a completely illogical, biological (I was convinced) tightening of my sex at the intimate touch. It had to have been biological because, really, he was a complete tool. And not to mention rude and inappropriate. That was not something I was attracted to in any way shape or form. So it was just some primal response due to a long dry spell on my part and, likely, the very strong alpha aura Byron St. James projected.
That was the only possible explanation for it.
It's not that he wasn't attractive; he was. Actually, he was the kind of handsome that belonged on ads for cigarettes in the 1960's- tall, dark, handsome, successful. But I was never the type of woman to be a sucker for looks over substance. While looks-wise, he won the genetic lottery, substance-wise, he had about all the appeal of a festering garbage can on a sweltering summer day.
So yeah... my lady genes were just having a knee-jerk reaction to his close proximity.
That was all there was.
"At my six at all times, understood?" he asked, finally releasing my skirt, but not moving away.
I watched as my hands fell from his chest, taking a step back from him, and nodding tightly. He watched me for a long moment before turning and heading out his door. Taking him at his word that I needed to be 'at his six' at all times, I scurried to follow behind him as he made his way downstairs onto the main floor of his ridiculously lavish home.
I bit into my cheek as I tried to ignore the gazes falling on me, looking at my absurd uniform and, therefore, my very bare body as I followed behind their boss like a little lost puppy.
"Coffee," he barked as he moved into his office doorway, stopping suddenly and making me crash into him.
"What?" I asked, stepping back as I held the door jamb.
"Coffee, Miss. Marlow. Is that too difficult an order for your brain to understand?"
A mix of rage and embarrassment flooded my system, giving me an almost overwhelming urge to both scream at him and cry... at the same time. I sucked in a deep breath, lifted my chin, and glared at him instead. "Gee. I don't know. I really am quite simple-minded."
"Must be a family trait," he said, stepping back and slamming the door, making me have to snatch my hand back quickly before it got caught.
"A family trait," I raged as I stomped toward the kitchen that should have filled me with the same awe as the day before, but I was too enraged to even pay it any mind save for the stainless steel coffee carafe I walked over to, reaching for one of the mugs in the cabinet above it and pouring his coffee, wishing for once that I actually had it in me to do something as foul as spit in it. But I didn't. So I poured the coffee and stomped my ass back toward his office, ripping open the door without knocking because, well, I was a servant. We were invisible and all that crap.
I could tell it was a move that surprised St. James because his head snapped up, a brow raising as he watched me storm across his room and slam his mug down on the surface of his desk, taking a small amount of pleasure in seeing some of the contents splash over the sides and pool on his, what I could only assume was, insanely expensive desk. Then I turned on my heel and made my way toward the door, knowing my instructions were to be 'on his six' when he was moving, I imagined, and outside whatever room he was at other times.
"Miss. Marlow," he called and I stiffened as I turned back to see him watching me. "Next time you spill it on my desk, you'll be taking your shirt off to clean it up."
I bit my tongue to keep the snippy retort I had in and went with instead, "Good to know." With that, I slammed the door a little too hard behind me and moved to the side, leaning against the wall.
Three hours later, I was pissed.
I was
There was a completely illogical, biological (I was convinced) tightening of my sex at the intimate touch. It had to have been biological because, really, he was a complete tool. And not to mention rude and inappropriate. That was not something I was attracted to in any way shape or form. So it was just some primal response due to a long dry spell on my part and, likely, the very strong alpha aura Byron St. James projected.
That was the only possible explanation for it.
It's not that he wasn't attractive; he was. Actually, he was the kind of handsome that belonged on ads for cigarettes in the 1960's- tall, dark, handsome, successful. But I was never the type of woman to be a sucker for looks over substance. While looks-wise, he won the genetic lottery, substance-wise, he had about all the appeal of a festering garbage can on a sweltering summer day.
So yeah... my lady genes were just having a knee-jerk reaction to his close proximity.
That was all there was.
"At my six at all times, understood?" he asked, finally releasing my skirt, but not moving away.
I watched as my hands fell from his chest, taking a step back from him, and nodding tightly. He watched me for a long moment before turning and heading out his door. Taking him at his word that I needed to be 'at his six' at all times, I scurried to follow behind him as he made his way downstairs onto the main floor of his ridiculously lavish home.
I bit into my cheek as I tried to ignore the gazes falling on me, looking at my absurd uniform and, therefore, my very bare body as I followed behind their boss like a little lost puppy.
"Coffee," he barked as he moved into his office doorway, stopping suddenly and making me crash into him.
"What?" I asked, stepping back as I held the door jamb.
"Coffee, Miss. Marlow. Is that too difficult an order for your brain to understand?"
A mix of rage and embarrassment flooded my system, giving me an almost overwhelming urge to both scream at him and cry... at the same time. I sucked in a deep breath, lifted my chin, and glared at him instead. "Gee. I don't know. I really am quite simple-minded."
"Must be a family trait," he said, stepping back and slamming the door, making me have to snatch my hand back quickly before it got caught.
"A family trait," I raged as I stomped toward the kitchen that should have filled me with the same awe as the day before, but I was too enraged to even pay it any mind save for the stainless steel coffee carafe I walked over to, reaching for one of the mugs in the cabinet above it and pouring his coffee, wishing for once that I actually had it in me to do something as foul as spit in it. But I didn't. So I poured the coffee and stomped my ass back toward his office, ripping open the door without knocking because, well, I was a servant. We were invisible and all that crap.
I could tell it was a move that surprised St. James because his head snapped up, a brow raising as he watched me storm across his room and slam his mug down on the surface of his desk, taking a small amount of pleasure in seeing some of the contents splash over the sides and pool on his, what I could only assume was, insanely expensive desk. Then I turned on my heel and made my way toward the door, knowing my instructions were to be 'on his six' when he was moving, I imagined, and outside whatever room he was at other times.
"Miss. Marlow," he called and I stiffened as I turned back to see him watching me. "Next time you spill it on my desk, you'll be taking your shirt off to clean it up."
I bit my tongue to keep the snippy retort I had in and went with instead, "Good to know." With that, I slammed the door a little too hard behind me and moved to the side, leaning against the wall.
Three hours later, I was pissed.
I was
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