She took a step toward him and slid one hand around his neck. The other traced a path down his chest, over his abdomen, and down to his cock, beginning to come to life.
She cupped it in her hands and squeezed as she touched her lips to his cheek.
He closed his eyes. This was good. This was working.
He kept his hands at his sides, let her unbutton his pants as her lips traveled down his neck. His body was taking over, leaving his mind behind. It was relief, and he sank into the slide of her hand around his cock.
He was going to fuck her. He was going to bury his cock inside her until he came so hard it obliterated all thoughts of Kira.
Mila touched her mouth to his as the name rang like a bell through his mind.
He grabbed onto her shoulders. “Stop.”
“I’m sorry,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “We don’t have to kiss.”
“That’s not the problem,” he said.
It was — kissing was intimate, something he rarely did with the women who occupied his bed — but it was everything else too. Her hair was all wrong, her face too homogenous, her body too lean.
An image flashed in his mind: long blond hair, green eyes set almost too far apart, a mouth too much for the fineness of her features, lush breasts and hips that invited his hands, his mouth, his teeth.
Fuck.
Mila stroked his cock and whispered against his neck. “It’s all right. I can make you come. Just let go.”
He was still hard, but it wasn’t for this woman. Even worse, he couldn’t pretend. She was all wrong. Her scent was laced with flowers, not the earthy lavender and patchouli that had wafted through the kitchen that morning.
She was eager to please instead of full of fire.
He could perform, force himself to go through the motions.
He just didn’t want to.
“Take your hands off me.” He shoved her gently away from him, and she stumbled a little, an expression of surprise on her face. “It’s time for you to go. You’ll be paid for your time.”
She picked her dress up from the floor, seemingly pacified, and slid it over her head. She straightened it before she headed for the door. When she got there, she paused to look him over, her eyes lingering on his swollen cock, probably still visible beneath his trousers.
“Whoever she is, she’s a lucky woman.”
She closed the door behind her and Lyon rubbed a hand across his face, the irony of Mila’s last words fully hitting him. There was no doubt in his mind that the woman dominating his thoughts didn’t consider herself lucky.
She couldn’t stand him, and he felt the same.
So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?