(Coming Together #2)
by Poppy Dunne
Release Date: December 8th
He’s rich. He’s powerful. He’s gorgeous. And he’s my boss…
Men like Rafe McCarthy never change.
Privileged playboys who party hard and date even harder–if you can call that revolving door of actresses and models “dating.” It’s my job to wake him up, sober him up, and send him into his meetings at the family pharmaceutical corporation more or less on time.
Meanwhile, I’m spending every cent and spare second taking care of my family. It’s probably because I’m so distracted that I accidentally swap our phones–and get notified of an appointment I most definitely did not make for him. Turns out Rafe has been keeping a few secrets beneath that artfully disheveled suit… like a heart of gold.
Just when I thought he couldn’t get any hotter.
Obviously I can’t be held responsible for my actions after that. Not for making out with him in my kitchen. Or for insisting he include me in his secret mission. Or for making out with him again. And all that led to. Or for…
Okay, I definitely know better than to fall for my boss. Oops.
“You showed more vulnerability—more passion—in thirty seconds than I can remember seeing in anybody else in thirty years.”
I swallow, lick my lips. I track my gaze down to his mouth. This is insane. This is stupid. This is the worst idea of all time.
I’m fresh out of good ideas, though.
“I’m not sure about passion,” I say, wondering vaguely if that was English. “I mean, I think I could show more.”
Yes. I’m doing this, consequences be damned. Rafe grins, the electricity in his gaze singing in my blood.
“I’m counting on it,” he growls, and kisses me. I give in at once, my arms wrapped tight around his neck. For a moment we’re locked together, tasting and exploring each other with our mouths, our lips, our tongues. I briefly take his bottom lip between my teeth, which makes him groan. Rafe cradles my head and kisses me deeper, his hand sliding down my back to cup my ass. Moaning, I press against him, feeling the hard, throbbing heat of an erection through his pants.
“Yes?” he whispers, breaking off the kiss once. His entire body vibrates with need. This’d be the point of no return. Watch me skip past that point, flipping it the bird as I plunge off the sexiest cliff of all time.
“Yes.” I barely get the word out before his mouth seals over mine again. He lifts me up, knocking the stool over as he does. I lock my legs around his waist as he carries me backwards into the living room. For a hundred heartbeats, I’m lost and drowning in him. Gently, he sprawls me on my back, the couch soft beneath me. Rafe presses down on me, and I run my hands through his hair as he tastes me again, kissing along my chin and down my neck. He plucks at the front of my sweatshirt, then lifts me up by the waist. In seconds, my sweatshirt is off, and my tee shirt follows. I’m sitting here in my bra, chest heaving as I gape at my boss. Meanwhile, he’s breathing just as hard as his gaze takes me in. His hands circle my waist, then trail up to cup my breasts.
I have never been this wet before in my life. Gasping, I lie back down as he strokes me through the thin lace of my bra. Rafe’s mouth closes over my nipple, sucking me through the fabric. Moaning, I arch my back as he undoes the button of my jeans, as he starts to pull them off. Soon I’m in only a bra and panties, and he’s, unfairly, still fully dressed.
“Let’s make it more equitable,” I murmur, tugging at his shirt. He grins, his teeth white.
“Any woman who uses the word equitable during sex is the perfect woman.”
I’m not sure how perfect I am when his shirt comes off and I’m face to face, or chest, or something, with an actual human Adonis. Pretty sure I start drooling at that point. Every line of his body is perfection, every toned and sculpted divot of his chest something of beauty. I can’t help myself and skim my hands along the iron-and-silk lines of his arms, his chest. I trail my fingertips down his (absolutely perfect) abs and find the thin, dark line of hair that tucks below his belt and all the way to—
I think we’re both calling out sick from work. This is going to take all day, and I can’t wait.
About the Author:
Poppy writes books with relatable heroines who speak their minds and whose riotous inner dialogue reflects their complex characters. Her goal is to deliver a story that has equal parts heart, romance and humor. She loves writing characters who are relatable, especially heroines whose inner dialogue remind readers of themselves. Her heroes are swoon worthy, yet hold on to your suspension of disbelief, because they pick up their own socks and cook.
In her free time, she looks for hobbies other than Netflix and rage-tweeting. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and children.