“Nice?” I lift a little and lean in, getting as close as I can, my eyes closing. “I could think of lots of words, Ava.” Pure bliss. Total gratification. Earth-shifting. Universe shaking. “Nice isn’t one of them.” Her cheek is millimeters from my mouth. Her leg inches from my hand. It’s an opportunity I’m not prepared to pass up. “I’ll leave you to consider my question.”

I press my lips to her cheek and inhale the goodness, my hand falling onto her thigh. “Soon,” I murmur, certain of that. She’s exhausted. Exhausted from maintaining this pointless, annoying resistance. Good. So next time I call her, she’ll answer. “It was nice to meet you, Kate.” I surrender my touch and rise.

“Hmm, you too.”

I smile at Ava’s friend’s pensiveness and stride away, heading for the men’s room at the back. I need to splash my face with cold water. I’m hot.

And hopeful.

By the time I’ve gathered myself and once again recalled every look, every word every touch from another encounter with Ava O’Shea, I’ve lost half an hour. I blow out my cheeks, blink my dry eyes, straighten my suit, and head back to my car, so fucking curious about what was said after I left. I ignore a call from Sarah and dial Ava. I want her back at The Manor.

I don’t know whether to be surprised or irritated when she doesn’t pick up. After what just happened, she’s not seriously still playing this game? Not after licking her lips and clenching her thighs. I try again. And again. And again.

And again, and again, and again.

Nothing.

I growl under my breath as I reach my car, slipping behind the wheel, but not starting the engine. I’m not averse to going into her office and giving her a recap of our lunchtime meeting. The way she looked at me. Her body was screaming so loudly, begging me. It was impossible to ignore. Or not so impossible for her, it seems. I growl again as I hammer out a text, my frustrated fingers working fast, but I force myself to be reasonable.

. . . ish.

Being rejected isn’t very nice. Why won’t you answer my calls? Jx

I give her thirty seconds to reply. Of course, she doesn’t. “Damn fucking woman,” I mutter as my phone dings. Ah!

If you need to discuss your requirements, you should be calling Patrick, not me.

I scoff, my thumbs a blur as they hammer their way across the screen. “If I want to discuss my requirements?” I mutter. “Don’t try and turn on your professional switch now, Miss O’Shea.”

My requirement is to make you scream. I don’t think Patrick can help me there. I’m gagging just thinking about it. That’s a thought . . .

Will I need to gag you? Jx