So Toxic(Bad Boy Next Door Book 4)(22)

Tyson’s gaze meets mine as he strolls toward me, mischief playing in the crinkled corners of his eyes. “Want to take a look, love?”

“Give me that.” I snatch the paperwork from him. I silently mimic him, mouthing love with a disgusted frown.

After giving the page a once-over, I pass it to him. He takes it while sliding his arm around my waist. “Let’s walk him out, shall we?”

I wiggle to get loose, but his grip tightens as he grins wider. Pushing me out the door behind Shawn, Ty keeps me at his side even as he shakes the man’s hand and waves goodbye.

As the three men load into the cab of their truck, Tyson turns to me, pushing his fingers into the hair at my temples. “Smile, darling, they can still see us.”

Even as my lips curve, I grind out through my gritted teeth. “Don’t you kiss—”

His mouth lands on mine, and he tugs at my bottom lip with his teeth, sending a flash of unwanted desire through me.

For the briefest moment, I forget that this is all a sham and close my eyes on the farce. I give an inch, and he takes a half-mile as he plunders my mouth in a kiss so hard and so deep that I lose my breath and stumble a bit when he lets go.

My fingers cover my lips as I try to gather my wits.

Tyson’s knowing gaze heats my cheeks.

“Okay; they’re gone. Too bad we have all these rules. I rather enjoy kissing you.” He turns and leaves me standing under the side portico, chest heaving, with a telling throb at the apex of my thighs.

I slump as I lean against the pillar behind me, shaking my head at my own foolishness.

This will never work. I’ll end up broken if I give in to this.

To him.

I shuffle inside.

Tyson stands in the middle of the front entry like he’s the king of his castle, surveying all that is good in his world. “We need furniture. Living room, dining room, master bedroom, and home office.”

“I’m going to unpack my stuff.” That last kiss must’ve opened some old wound because my chest aches enough to send me into hiding.

He rubs his hands together. “Let’s go shopping.”

“You should pick out your own things. It’s your place. I’m only here temporarily, after all.” I head toward the staircase.

He darts to me, taking my hand.

Ty rolls the knuckle on my pinky between his forefinger and thumb. “I need you. Please help me.”

I pull my hand from his. “Fine. But no kissing. None.”

He casts me a forlorn expression, pleading with his eyes. “Can I at least hold your hand? Rub your shoulders? Pat your ass?”

“You may touch my hands. That’s it. No ass patting allowed.”

“Yes!” He lifts his fists over his head, champion style.

Those gray eyes will be the death of me.

Death might be accurate. Because as much as I’d like to think I’m beyond that stupid crush from all those years ago, I’m no more in charge of my feelings now than I was then. And for every little bit I give in to him, the more of me I’ll lose when this is over.





I open Jo’s door. When she gets out of the car, her sable hair glints in the sun. She brushes by me. The scent of her perfume or soap or whatever it is teases me with its simplicity and freshness.

I slip my fingers between hers. When she tries to pull away, I tighten my hold. “You said hands. This is your hand.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh and relaxes her arm.

I’ve spent the entire drive to the upscale furniture pavilion thinking of ways I might seduce her while only touching her hand. The challenge alone could prove interesting.

Inside, we stroll through set after set of furniture groupings. She looks politely but doesn’t comment on any of the collections.

“What do you like?” I pull her hand to my lips, laying soft kisses on each of her knuckles.

Her lips purse. “It doesn’t matter what I like. This is your furniture for your house. You should choose.”

I pull my fingers from hers, turning her palm up, laying a kiss in its center and having a tiny taste while I’m there. “It matters to me. I have no idea what looks nice. If it were up to me the entire house would be full of bean bags and pool tables.”

She pulls her hand out of mine, folding her arms over her chest. “Is that what you had in your other house? Bean bags?”

I shrug. “No—but only because my mother steamrolled me into allowing her to decorate for me. That’s probably why it burned to the ground. Satan’s fire is usually never far from her fingertips.”

Jo bites her bottom lip. “Oh, yeah. You and your mom never really got on well, did you?”

“I guess that’s one way to put it.” The bitterness I nurture in regard to my mother rears its ugly head.