She flinched, then her temper flared. “I’m your assistant. You picked me. Let me assist you, damn it.”
“No cursing, little one. You’re my professional right hand. I don’t need you in my personal life.”
Though he was right, it hurt a little. Still, London hesitated, debating the wisdom of the words on the tip of her tongue. If she wanted to save her own ass, she should definitely shut up now. If she wanted to save his, she had to get brave.
“Are you sure? You need something. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have polished off a whole bottle of vodka by barely one o’clock in the afternoon. Would you like me to apologize to you? Fine. I’m sorry I overheard. I’m sorry if you lost a beloved wife and a child on the way. I’m sorry if you’re sad or embarrassed or feel like the situation is totally out of your control. I’m sorry you’ve isolated yourself so seriously that you’re relying on your brand-new assistant to help you out of your binge, rather than your brother or friends. I’m sorry if I’m upsetting you even more. But I’m never going to apologize for trying to help you.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her baggie of items, slamming it on the desk. “Here’s some ibuprofen and reading glasses.”
Javier cursed, then tossed the empty bottle in the trash can. “Where the hell did you come from? You’re the first person on my payroll in at least ten years who’s given a shit and had the balls to stand up to me. And you’re barely more than a baby.” He shook his head. “Everything you heard is confidential.”
The intimation that she’d tell anyone deeply affronted her. “Of course.”
He swayed on his feet, and she jumped up to guide him into her office chair. He plopped down, the bulky piece of furniture rolling across her plastic mat. He anchored himself by wrapping his hands around her hips.
London went hot all over. Javier Santiago was touching her. Her breath caught . . . just like it did when she remembered the sinful way his brother had put his mouth on her and given her a scream-worthy orgasm. And somehow, she couldn’t escape the notion that if Javier knew what she and Xander had done mere days ago, he wouldn’t be pleased.
“Sir?”
“Fuck, yes,” he practically groaned. “That word on your lips is so sweet.”
Something started pounding between her legs, and she feared it was desire. She understood why he’d want the professional deference of her calling him “sir,” but his voice suggested that the pleasure he derived was almost sexual. She didn’t understand. But she wanted to.
“You should probably let go of me.” That was the last thing London wanted, but she would hate to add to his pile of regrets. He didn’t need more of those.
He struggled to his feet, feeling his way up by steadying himself on her waist. God, he was everywhere on her, and it took everything she had not to press herself against him. What kind of girl was she that she took pleasure from one brother while also desiring the other? London didn’t have the answer. Then one of his hands brushed her breast on the way to her shoulder. The thought dissipated under the heat of his touch.
Javier held her close and stared down into her eyes. “You’re right. I should.” He slurred his words now. “You’re so beautiful, London. Do you know that I spent most of our interview thinking about how badly I want to fuck you?”
Heat blasted her. Her jaw dropped. She blinked, trying to process what he’d said. He wanted to . . . Whoa! She really should be insulted or worried or afraid—something appropriate in this situation. But all she could feel was a tingling behind her throbbing clit that spelled trouble.
“Sir, I—”
“You’ll call me that someday and mean it when you kneel for me, little one.”
Kneel? Like she was praying? “I don’t understand.”
He sent her a wobbly smile and brushed his body against hers. He tucked his face in her neck and inhaled sharply. The scent of booze wafted from him, but that wasn’t enough to suppress her desire. She also smelled his strength, his musk, and his need. Desiring him when he was so nearly unhinged wasn’t smart. Wanting to “fix” him now probably put her in the utterly stupid category . . . but she couldn’t really help how she felt.
“I know. But if I had my way, you would.”
Javier swayed toward her, eyes closing, head cocking, mouth drawing closer to her own. He intended to kiss her? The man she’d encountered this morning would be horrified if he could see himself now. And as much as she wanted to know if she could soothe him with her kiss, she had a feeling it would only make him lament everything more tomorrow.
“You can’t—” She pushed at him, only meaning to put a bit of distance between them.
Instead, he fell back into her chair limply, passed out before his ass ever hit the cushion.
His snoring started moments later, and she stared at him, shaking her head. Well, that probably ended the workday. And she couldn’t just leave him here.
With a sigh, she found her cell phone in her purse and dialed Alyssa. “Hi. Um, I need help. Or rather, Javier does. Can you come get us? I don’t think he should be alone tonight.”
Chapter Seven
XANDER prowled his hotel suite. It wasn’t the Ritz, and everything smelled faintly like mildew, but that wasn’t what agitated him. He gripped his phone, nearly crushing it between his fingers. It was the only way he could manage to resist throwing it against the wall.
London. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her over the last few days. The cloud of her pale hair. Her responsiveness. Her plump, perfect breasts. The shy flirtation of her gaze between thick lashes contrasted so sharply with her sexy as hell striptease. The way she’d offered him her virginity so easily, but then given him an invalid phone number—all while looking so guileless.
He’d been trying to both reach her for the last forty-eight hours and find someone who would take his mind off of her. Neither tactic had done a damn bit of good. And he’d had enough.
For whatever reason, he was hung up on this girl. It was a momentary thing. Probably. Like every other woman, once he’d had her a time or two, he’d be over her, right? He didn’t want to be the one to take her virginity. He didn’t want to hurt her and he didn’t want the responsibility. Well, at least logically. Deep down, on some visceral level he’d never felt, he wanted to put his stamp on her, leave some permanent mark on her, and know in that moment she was his.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
No idea, but whatever it was urged him to grab his keys and leave his suite, drive across town in the light afternoon traffic. After a phone call to Tara, he verified Luc and Alyssa’s address and found himself ringing the doorbell ten minutes later.