His apartment was exactly where one would expect a financially upstanding straight man to live stylish in a bland, careless kind of way. Why that made her pussy clench, she couldn’t say. Charlie felt like an object, a pretty thing being presented for his approval. He stared at her, his gaze lingering on her silk-covered breasts, her surely flushed throat. You’re going to touch this man, you’re going to fuck him. From his switchblade cheekbones to his dark hazel eyes, everything said “back off,” and if his face wasn’t intimidating enough, James had tattoos, a coat of arms on his right pectoral muscle and an angry-looking stallion rearing itself on his rib cage. There was nothing soft about his looks, nothing approachable. “Handsome” was entirely the wrong word to describe him. Why in hell hadn’t she worn a bra? Blues music filtered into the air as the door swung back to reveal James, shirtless and barefoot, wearing a pair of black jeans The doorknob rattled and with a jolt of horror Charlie realized he was home, he was going to open the door, and she looked like a slutty secretary.
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