Chapter 4 I Bite Down My Button Lips

• Angel’s POV
• I don’t understand why I’m suddenly on fire from head to toe.
• This is Dante ?
• When I pictured the kind of man who would expect a female to remove her dress in order to get a job, I imagined him a lot more…smarmy. Slick.
• This man has integrity in every bulging line of his big body.
• No, big doesn’t even begin to do him justice. He’s a mountain.
• A beautiful, magnificent mountain.
• As I follow him down the hallway to the final door, I must squeeze my keys hard enough to hurt the palms of my hand. Otherwise, I fear I’ll reach for him. Run my fingertips along his mammoth shoulders, sink them into his black hair. I have the strangest urge to climb onto his back and be carried. My goodness, that would be the most secure place in the world. On the back of this giant, my legs around his waist.
• That last part creates a pulsing sensation between my thighs.
• I bite down hard on my bottom lip and consider excusing myself to the bathroom, so I can rub myself through my panties. I know from experience that rubbing only makes the ache worse, but the impulse has never been this bad. Not in all my eighteen, almost nineteen, years.
• His scent drifts back toward me in the air conditioning.
• Incense. Musk.
• My private area is becoming wet.
• Why am I reacting to him this way? How will I keep my composure for this interview?
• We reach the final door at the end of the hall and he opens it, grunting for me to precede him. Walking past his thick body without touching it is sheer torture. My mouth salivates. My heart bounces wildly in my chest. Is it my imagination or does he inhale raggedly as I pass, too?
• Focus. You need this job.
• Shaking myself, I continue into the office. The room consists of a couch, a desk and a chair. I take a spot on the couch because it looks the most comfortable. After a short hesitation, he drags the chair over in front of the couch and sits facing me, swallowing up the piece of furniture like Goliath sitting on a doll chair.
• There are no lights on, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
• “You don’t have any paperwork,Dante” I whisper, trying not to breathe hard.
• He’s so close.
• So huge and intimidating with those intense green eyes.
• He could flatten me on this couch and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
• “My name is Alexander .” He looks at me hard, as if willing that name into permanence in my memory. “Dante is busy. And I don’t need paperwork. I know everything I need to know about you,” he says, his tone of voice like metal on stone. “I know you shouldn’t be here.”
• “Already?” Panic bites into my gut. “We haven’t even started the interview.”
• “I don’t need to interview you to know you’re too soft for Vegas.”
• “I’m not,” I breathe, visualizing the last of my cash swirling down the drain. Seeing myself back at the farm, crawling back and asking for forgiveness from a man who has never shown me an ounce of compassion. Come on. Be convincing.
• “Just because my name is Angel doesn’t mean I am soft.I’ve worked hard my whole life, sir. Just last winter, I helped birth a foal in the middle of a blizzard. I’m pretty sure I can carry a tray and serve drinks.”
• “I’m not worried about you serving drinks,” he responds sharply. “I’m worried about the men you’ll be serving them to. How they’ll react to you.”
• Confusion mars my brow. “What do you mean?”
• Very fleetingly, his attention drops to my breasts, then away, his chest puffing up and down faster. He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs it against his upper lip. “Men have polluted thoughts on a regular basis. Throw in gambling, alcohol, sex and the understanding that nothing they do here will follow them home? It’s a whole other story. You…” He can’t seem to look at me. “They will lose their minds over you.”
• What is he talking about? “I’m still lost.”
• “Yeah, honey. That’s the problem. You look lost.” He rakes the handkerchief down over his open mouth, his gaze tracing my knees this time. Then upward to my thighs, stopping on the place in between.
• “And someone with bad intentions is going to find you really fucking fast.”
• My flesh tightens beneath his regard. Intensely. If I lifted my dress, I swear he’d be able to see it squeeze right through my white cotton panties. Why…why am I so tempted to prove that theory? To show him what’s beneath my clothing? I just might get the chance if I can’t convince him to hire me.
• “Do the other waitresses have to worry about being found by men with bad intentions?”
• “Not the way you will,” he says, closing his eyes.
• “Spell it out for me,” I whisper, goading him for a reason I can’t explain.
• “God help me.” His nostrils flare. “You look like a virgin tied up on an auction block. Scared and confused. But very clearly built for…”
• “What?”
• “I’m not saying it out loud,” he growls.