Page 31 of Iron Heart
Yes. I probably should. I mean, I should probably take his words at their face value — that he’s at least flirting, and maybe even more. That’s not exactly a professional relationship in the making, is it?
But….
A tiny little spark inside me — deep inside me — lights up at the idea of him being there, in my house, and then… I dunno, like he comes up behind me, and maybe slides a hand around my waist, the other down my thigh…
I’d feel his breath on my neck…maybe the scrape of his beard against my skin…
“Tori?”
I start in my chair, eyes darting to Ryan, who’s looking at me expectantly.
“Wh-what? I’m sorry,” I stammer.
His brow furrows just a little. “What do you think? About making sure all of our articles have a minimum of at least one hot button to take them to other content on the site.”
I glance over at Frank, who’s leaning back with his hands folded over his generous stomach, waiting for me to say something. “Oh. Yes,” I say hurriedly. “I think that’s definitely something we should be doing more of. Keep people on the site. Make it more relevant to them.”
“And use the data we collect on visitor activity as an incentive for our advertisers,” Ryan adds.
Frank stares at me for a long second, then nods, considering. “Okay, yeah, that makes sense,” he mutters grudgingly. “I guess I’m a dinosaur, that kind of clicky-clicky shit pisses me off. But I guess it’s what people want.”
“The online reading experience is definitely different from the print experience,” Ryan continues. “People have short attention spans. But you can use that to your advantage if you know how. Research suggests…”
And Ryan is off to the races, explaining some data analysis stuff that he totally geeks out about. I force myself to listen to him, working hard to ignore the heat that’s still there between my legs at the memory of my naughty fantasy.
Dante fantasizes about me. He basically said as much.
Just like I fantasize about him.
I wonder what he thinks about?
The heat between my legs grows, turning into a dull, insistent throb. I’m uncomfortably aware of my hardening nipples as they rub against the fabric of my bra.
Leading the nun-like life I do here in Ironwood, I haven’t been turned on like this in a long time. Averylong time.
Way back in the far recesses of my brain, a tiny warning signal sounds.
Dante is almost certainly a criminal, I remind myself desperately.He’s dangerous. You should be afraid of him even being in your house. You should probably fire him, if you know what’s good for you.
And I probably should. Lord knows, my entire adult life so far has been about making all my decisions in terms of what’s safest for me, and my useless heart.
So why does the thought of Dante D’Agostino make me want to abandon all of my smart, boring decisions? Let go, and let something happen between us?
What if he actually came up behind me? What if he pulled me to him? Crushed my mouth with his? Took me against the kitchen counter before I even knew what was happening?
What would I do? Would I stop him?
The scariest thing isn’t that I have no idea.
The scariest thing is, I’m pretty sure Ido.
My heart is thuddingwith sick anticipation as I pull into my street after work. But to my relief and disappointment, there’s no truck or motorcycle sitting in my driveway. Dante is gone.
The duplicate set of keys I gave him is sitting on the counter, just where I asked him to leave them.
Sitting next to them is a small object I don’t recognize at first.
But when I pick it up, I see what it is: a fuse. One of the blown ones.