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to get ready? Okay, I guess that’s what I’ll do. Cause I’m as sure as hell not going out in my flannel shirt and lounge pants. This outfit was motel room intended only. Rural Canada or not I’m not going out like an urchin.
    I turn my back to him. I take a quick breath, roll my eyes and pull down my pants. I wonder if Mr. Professional is taking a peek. I imagine him quietly growling. Maybe he did. I suddenly feel more naked than before.
    Taking my sweet time, gliding the pants down to my ankles and feet, I’m dying to know where his eyes are staring. It takes a lot of effort not to peek. I’ve been told before I have a cute butt, but who knows what this beast likes? Probably giant Viking women.
    I put my hands under the hem of my flannel shirt to pull it off. I think I hear him shift his position on the couch but I can’t be certain. At least I shut him up. As my skin gets all tingly from the cool air and I’m left standing in nothing but my panties—no bra, thank you very much, this was supposed to be strictly me time spent watching bad cable movies and eating chips—it hits me that I have to consider the possibility that the reason Tanner pisses me off so much is precisely because I’m physically obsessed with him.
    I bend over to reach into my suitcase. I take my time. No man can keep his eyes off a woman bending over.
    Not so professional now, are you, big guy?
    I mean, just the thought of being taken by this savage, getting lost in all that goodly, bulging muscle mass, hoisted around and played with for hours… lord, yes, I’m one hundred percent certain he could go on for hours with the proper incentives. Not to mention he might…
    But then my mind goes blank because—guess what—he just fucking pinched my nipple.
     
    *
     

Tanner
    She starts undressing right in front of me, reminding me what I’ve known for some time. Jordan Kane’s youngest daughter is a full-fledged woman now, with all the right curves in all the right places. I’ve spent a lot of energy avoiding illicit thoughts about her smooth, inviting skin. My senses sharpen on long drives home accompanying her from distant coffee shops or college libraries. I become hyper aware of her scents, her breathing, the shapes her lips make.
    What the fuck is she doing? She’s taking off her shirt. I can see the reflection of her surprisingly bountiful tits in the darkening window glass, instantly giving me a hard-on.
    She leans over to take something out of the suitcase that’s splayed on a foldout chair inside the closet, presenting me with a round, firm ass under a tiny pair of white cotton panties.
    That fucking girl. She’s fucking perfect with her firm tits and soft hips and she damn well knows it. She wants to drive me crazy so I lose focus. It won’t work. My self-control is something she’d never understand.
    I get up and reach her in two long strides, throwing a hand around her ribcage to find her right nipple. I pinch hard, letting her know I’m the boss.
    The plan was to shock her because I’m getting tired of these games, but also because she’s a fucking distraction that won’t go away.
    Touching her crudely wakes me up from any strange ideas as to what our actual relationship might be. I’m a hired hand. She’s a trust fund brat. That’s all there is to it.
    Her nipple bunches up under my pinching fingers and she lets out a shocked gasp, eyes almost popping out of their sockets as she turns around to face me. She doesn’t know what to think of this new development which is good. Whatever game she thought she was playing is over. This is my world, my terms. I’m pleased to keep her speechless for a while.
    “Behave,” I say. “I’m getting tired of your antics.”
    She licks her lips but it’s not in a sexual way. It’s in a confused, I-didn’t-see-that-coming kind of way. Have I gone too far? All I know is touching her like that feels fucking good.
    “Let go of me,” she says with quivering lips, “this