Touch Me, Daddy

7 - Sadie.

Stefan Rodriguez is a complicated man.

One minute, he's gazing at me hungrily, yanking me to his front, and kissing me until my head spins. Making all my heartsick daydreams of the last four years, all those imaginary kisses that played like a movie reel in my head, pale in comparison to the real thing. Drowning me in perfect, overwhelming details.

Like his heat.

His hunger.

The hard planes of his chest and the little growls in the back of his throat, and the way he kissed along my jaw, breathing in the scent of my skin like he wanted me to fill his lungs.

Then... this. We're back to cold, professional distance between us again, like nothing ever happened. Like it meant nothing. If I didn't know better, I'd think I hallucinated the whole freaking thing—except my lips are kiss-swollen, and there's a telltale slickness between my legs that will not stop tormenting me as I walk. Thoughts blurry, I dodge a server carrying a stack of trays and stumble across the rooftop. The band is warming up, random notes humming on the breeze.

Gotta get inside.

Gotta change for tonight.

And hell, I'm going to need a long, cold shower first to get my head on straight; to calm the ache in my lower belly and my feverish pulse and all the silly, foolish voices whispering in my head that he wants me, he wants me, Stefan actually wants me.

Stefan Rodriguez does not want me.

Stefan Rodriguez does not do relationships. Period.

And if he ever broke that rule, it would never be for me. I annoy him too much, driving him to distraction with my perkiness first thing in the morning. He's grumbled about how unbearable I am more times than I could ever count—and I try really, really hard not to count.

But... unbearable, am I?

That kiss didn't feel like he found me unbearable. Not for those few perfect minutes, at least. No: it felt like Stefan Rodriguez was ready to sling me over his shoulder and carry me across the city rooftops, King Kong style.

Back inside the building, my spare key lets me into the boss's penthouse apartment. I've been here dozens of times before, running errands for Stefan, but my heart has never raced like this as I step inside. My skin has never flushed hot, like I'm doing something wrong.

I'm not.

I'm not.

Stefan is the one who told me to get ready here, and I remind myself of that fact over and over as I gobble down two of my toffee-nut cookies in the kitchen in place of dinner, shower in his bathroom, dress in his bedroom, and keep my gaze fixed on anything except the bed. Still, it's impossible to miss the faint spicy scent of his aftershave. What color are Stefan's bed sheets?

No! I will not look.

If I do, I'll probably rope myself to the headboard and beg my boss to ravish me just once for old times' sake. Sane, normal assistants don't do that.

So, nope. Not crossing any lines in here, thank you, brain. Instead I tiptoe back to the safety of the living area and slide on my strappy high heels with a wince.

Ouch. I stand up straight and shake out my arms. My feet throb like crazy, and it's already been a long day, but I'm sure that my silvery heels and pink cocktail dress do nothing to hide that fact. At least I've redone my ponytail, smoothing down those stray, frizzy hairs, and dabbed some gloss on my lips.

The key sliding into the lock gives me barely any warning. The door swings open, and Stefan strides inside, barreling into the kitchen.

He's still in his work clothes from earlier, the white shirt open at the collar and rumpled by our kiss—and duh, of course he hasn't changed yet. I've been hogging his apartment.

Stefan's black hair is wind-ruffled, and dark shadows cling beneath his icy blue eyes. He looks wan as he chugs a glass of water; today is taking a toll on him too.

Is he okay?

Wish I could cancel this party. Even though it's selfish, even though I've put in months and months of stressful work, I'd love nothing more right now than to close that door and block out the rest of the world. To hole up in this penthouse with the boss and let him persuade me again to stay with a kiss; to switch on his fancy remote-control fireplace and curl up together on the sofa for more... negotiations.

Because Stefan kissed me.

He kissed me.

Doesn't make any sense.

But my stupid heart doesn't care about logic and boring stuff like that—it's too busy doing cartwheels around my chest.

"You look..." Stefan trails off with a frown, placing his empty glass down with a thud.

My excitable heart sinks, finally simmering down, and I pluck at the pink fabric. It seemed fine when I checked myself in the bathroom mirror, but maybe this outfit is all wrong. "Oh. Okay. I could change back into the purple dress from earlier?"

"What?" Stefan's frown deepens, then he jerks his head from side to side. "No! That's not what I—no. You look nice. That's what I was going to say."

"Nice," I mumble. "Thank you."

And I'm not digging for compliments, I swear, this man just scrambles my brain with a fork whenever he's near. But Stefan huffs and folds his arms, leaning back against the counter like I'm being difficult.

"Beautiful. You look beautiful, Sadie. Alright? Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Um. No? No one wants compliments through gritted teeth.

"I'll head up to the roof," I say, all business. No point wallowing, is there? And arguing sure won't make things better. Besides, I'll be gone in two short weeks, and these tiny stabs of disappointment won't hurt me anymore. "You change and follow, then we can greet the guests as they arrive."

"Wait, Sadie."

"Mm?" Tugging my dress straight, I won't meet the boss's eye. Why should I? He kissed me, then bit my head off. Life is too damn short for this nonsense, and that is why I'm leaving.

"Will you stay?" Stefan presses, gripping the counter hard, and it's so freaking rich of him to ask me that now, right after grumping at me over nothing.

"No."

The boss puffs up, outraged. "But I kissed you. We agreed—"

"We didn't agree on anything. You tried something and it didn't work. Nice attempt, though." My heels clack on the floor as I march past, and jeez, I hate playing hardball like this. Hate walking away when I can feel the misery pouring off him in waves, but what else can I do?

This man could crush my heart without a second thought—and he doesn't even want it. He wants me to stay as his assistant, nothing more, and he's willing to toy with my feelings to win his prize.

I should be madder than this. I should stomp and yell.

Instead, I'm just tired.

"Follow me up when you're ready."