“I could help.”
He almost laughed, and clicked on the next property she thought might interest him. “Yeah? How?” Stand in front of him and hold the club with her right hand while he held it with his left? He thought of her back pressed against his chest, his nose in her hair, and his hand just above hers on his nine iron. His brain skidded to a halt at the double entendre, and an odd weight settled at the top of his stomach.
“I could look into special clubs.”
The weight was so unexpected it disturbed him. Probably because he recognized it. He hadn’t felt anything like it in a long time, but he knew the heavy pull for what it was. “A club for disabled players? No thanks.” The last thing he wanted was to feel any sort of anything for the assistant. It wasn’t like he was opposed to feeling desire for a woman again, just not this woman.
She leaned forward and pointed to the condo on the screen, and he was forced to look at her small hand and the smooth skin of her fingers and palm. She kept her nails short, and without any sort of color. Usually he liked color. His gaze slid to the delicate blue vein of her wrist. She was so close that if he wanted, he could press his mouth to the inside of her bare elbow. She was so close that he was surrounded by the scent of her perfume. It was kind of flowery and fruity, just like her.
“The view out the windows is spectacular,” she said and leaned a bit closer. Her hair fell forward and her soft breast brushed the back of his shoulder. The weight in his stomach slid a few inches lower and if he didn’t know better, he’d suspect that he was about to get turned on.
“I don’t want to live downtown. It’s too noisy.”
“You’d be high and wouldn’t hear it.”
“I don’t get the good drugs anymore. I’d hear it,” he said, and brought up a house in Queen Anne. Maybe the feeling in his stomach had to do with his medication.
She laughed next to his ear. A soft, breathy little sound that tickled his temple. “I meant high as in elevation.”
He almost smiled. Showed where his mind tended to reside these days.
She leaned forward a little more, pressing into him. “This house is almost four thousand square feet. It has a great view of the bay and is all one floor. I thought it might be perfect for you.”
He wondered if she was doing it on purpose. Women had been pressing and rubbing up against him since his rookie days. Letting him know they wanted sex in not so subtle ways. But he didn’t really think his little assistant was rubbing up against him because she wanted him to push her down on his desk and have sex with her right there.
Or did she?
“The kitchen has been completely renovavieletely ted and modernized. What do you think?”
What did he think? He thought of her sitting on his desk in front of him, his hands pushing the skirt up her legs, because as much as Mark loved spending time with a nice pair of breasts, he was ultimately a thigh man. A woman’s smooth inner thighs were his favorite parts. He loved sliding his palms up soft, warm skin, getting softer and warmer as his hand moved up higher.
“What do you think, Mr. Bressler?”
The weight slowly lowered to just beneath his navel and stopped before reaching his groin. “I don’t cook.” Six months ago, he would have had a full-blown erection by now.
“You don’t have to cook.”
The warm heaviness was the most of anything he’d felt in a long time and the very last thing he wanted to feel for the woman pressing into him. “Tell me again? Why am I looking at real estate?”
“Because you want to move.”
He placed his left hand on the desk and stood, balancing most of his weight on his right side. He didn’t need her butting into his business and trying to run his life. “I never told you that.”
She was forced to take a step back. “You mentioned it.”
He turned and leaned his behind on the desk. “If I mention that I haven’t been laid for six months, are you going to start lining up hookers?”
Her brows lowered over her blue eyes. “You didn’t get laid yesterday?”
God, did she ever react like a normal woman?
“You didn’t hook up with Donda?”
The Sports Illustrated reporter? “No.” He’d never hook up with a reporter, on the off chance she’d write about it.
“Or anyone else?”
Why would she think something like that? “It’s none of your damn business.”