“Good, but there’s still something missing.” He studies my face. “Do you have any red lipstick? Put that on.”
“Why red?”
“It’s eye-catching. Think of it as a way to say ‘fuck me’ without actually asking out loud.”
I frown. “Red lips are an indication that I want to sleep with someone?”
“Like a cape to a bull.”
Of course. “Are you planning to tell me how to apply my makeup from now on?”
“God, no. I just know what guys focus on. If it’s not your eyes or your tits, it’s your mouth so he can imagine it wrapped around his cock.”
“That’s objectifying and sexist.”
“That’s honest.”
Shaking my head, I grab a red lipstick and paint the color across my lips. When I’m finished, I step back, shocked at how I now look. My eyes look bigger, and my lips look fierce. I look sultry. Seductive. Sexy as fuck.Me!
Who would have ever thought that possible?
He looks beyond pleased as he takes in my handiwork in the bathroom mirror. “Sweetheart, there is no doubt in my mind you’ll be breaking necks tonight.”
But not hearts. Then again, that’s not the goal.
“Thanks.” I laugh awkwardly.
He looks down at his watch. “Time to go.”
I grab a white, over-the-shoulder purse, then drop my phone, wallet, lipstick, and keys inside before heading out and locking the door behind us.
I live on the third floor, and I sometimes find it hard to walk in heels down the stairs, especially since they’re steep. Holding onto the railing for dear life, I take one slow side-step at a time.
“You okay?” he asks behind me.
“I think so.”
He stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Let me help you.”
Before I can take another unsteady step down, he wraps his strong arms around my waist and lifts me against his chest. The smell of sandalwood fills my head.
If I were still looking for Prince Charming, I’d want to be swept off my feet like this. In fact, I would relish it. The man is gorgeous, after all. But he’s my boss, this isn’t a date, he’s not interested in me romantically, and I’m too heavy for him to carry.
“Jonathan…”
“Wrap your arms around my neck. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
He scoffs. “The way you’re struggling in those shoes, you’re the one way more likely to get hurt.”
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. I give in and wrap an arm around his neck. He lifts me against his chest and holds me with ease all the way to the bottom of the stairs.
I’ve never been held by a man like this before. Sure, I’ve read about it in books and seen it in movies, but experiencing it for real makes my heart swoon. I feel so safe and secure because of his unwavering strength. I shouldn’t. He’s simply trying to hasten our outing along without a trip to the ER. But still, I can’t help feeling giddy and excited.
He’s a manwhore. He’s probably done this, and more, to other women to make them feel special, I tell myself. He doesn’t mean it.
That doesn’t stop me from wishing he did.