Public Relations

Chapter 16: Mia

"God, fuck it."

And then my hands are linked at the nape of his neck, pulling his body flush against mine. With him sitting on the low table, he's a few inches below me. His fingers grip the hollow of my back, then shift a smidgen lower to rest at the top of my hips.

His lips are soft, hungry against mine, practically desperate. I'm sure I'm the same, feverishly kissing him out of anger and annoyance and, frankly, pure lust. I'm tired of this man toying with me, getting on my nerves, packing up my irritation into a neat little box.

Somehow we're not close enough, not with his arms pulling me tight, not with my hands tangled in his hair.

"Fuck," falls from his lips somewhere in the haste of our kiss. He breaks from my mouth to trail a delicate line up my jaw towards my ear, then straight down my neck to my collarbone. I allow him to chart my skin like this, the sensations so gentle it sets my nerve endings on fire, aching for something more.

Then, at the top of my collarbone, he nips the skin lightly, eliciting a sound so vulnerable and needy from me I almost push him away.

He laughs, a low growl against my blouse. "You liked that?"

"Shut up."

"Gladly."

He stands, and the sudden change in height almost makes me dizzy. He's taller than me, despite my 5'10 stature, despite my heels, and he leans down to press our foreheads together. I'm thrown by this, by the sheer intimacy of it, how our breath dances together between us, something fatal and addictive.

Brett backs me up slowly, as if asking for permission, until my back is against the very screen I'd been presenting on. It's still pulled up to a slide of his main points, what he's supposed to deflect to when asked tough questions about touchy - or confidential - matters. Ironically, one of those matters is listed in dark red as Illicit Affairs.

His fingers drag their way to my chin, tilting my face towards his, our noses brushing when he inches closer. He kisses me again and he tastes like sugar and bad decisions. A small sound comes from somewhere in my throat and I can tell it eggs him on.

"Mia bella," he whispers, as hypnotic as a hymn, a prayer.

I try to stay in this moment, this release of our frustration, but my mind is swimming. The thoughts are fleeting and murky, interrupted frequently when Brett bites my lower lip or moans - oh, what a delicious sound that proves to be - but they're pervasive enough to take hold.

That this is my place of work. That anyone could walk in. That Brett is my client. That my boss has already reprimanded me for inappropriate with this very client. That my boss is also, horrifically, my father. How that very father is in the building.

I pull away suddenly. "That's enough."

The spell is broken immediately, crashing to the ground like a pane of glass that had been hanging precariously in the air. Something is loud - the blood thrumming in my ears, I realize - and I'm out of breath.

Brett brings his thumb to his lips and wipes the lip gloss from the corners of his mouth, his eyes locked on me like he's daring me to say something snarky. I almost do, but the words die at my lips. It was hot. It was needed. And it's over now.

"Anyway," I breathe, "If you'll sit down, I've got a presentation to get through."

Brett laughs jollily at this, almost sarcastically, until he realizes I'm serious. His mouth falls into a small O, face contorted in disbelief. "That's it? You're going back to work?"

"Well, there's work to do."

"Be for real, Mia."

"I'm always for real, Brett."