“Easy,” he says, his voice low and maddeningly calm. His hands slide from the tops of my knees to the insides of my thighs, coaxing my legs apart with a touch that’s too careful to be truly innocent.

“I know what you’re thinking, but stay with me so I can show you what I mean.”

“You’ve got about ten seconds to make your case before my better judgment shows up.”

“I’m being serious here.” He leans in closer, his eyes pinning me in place. “Imagine me as your lover and I’m going down on you.”

What the actual hell?

Every rational part of me screams to be offended, to shut this shit down.

But betrayal simmers low in my gut because his words send a flash of heat straight through me.

God, I hate that my body responds to him before my mind can.

“Do you see the problem with this?”

There’s a whole lot of problems with this. Not just one.

His grip is firm, his palms warm against my skin. The space between us smaller than it should be, the air charged with something I don’t want to name.

“Let me be more specific.”

He lowers his head and places a kiss on the inside of my thigh, his eyes locked on mine, looking up at me as he does it.

Oh fuck.

“Now do you see the problem?”

I swallow hard, pulse hammering in my ears. “The bed is too low. It makes positioning… difficult.” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathless, like it belongs to a woman who hasn’t had a man go down on her in months.

A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Bingo.”

“You realize that not all of your guests will be on their knees, right?”

Something dark flickers in his eyes. “The fun ones will be. And the ones, like me, who know how to take care of a woman.”

Fucking knew it! I should’ve become a nun.

I should get up. Walk away. Remind him this is a business relationship, not whatever dangerous game he’s turning it into. But my body won’t move, frozen in the space between common sense and the heat crawling over my skin. I need this job—desperately—but the air between us crackles with something dark, undeniable, and I hate how much a part of me aches for it.

I need to get control of this situation—fast. Before it goes too far.

Hell, it’s already gone too far.

His fingers flex against my skin, and his voice drops lower, rich with confidence. “I’m a man who enjoys giving a woman pleasure. And I’m very good at it.”

A sharp breath catches in my throat. Logic screams at me to get away, to remind him this is business. But my body betrays me, rooting me in place, frozen.