Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 18

“I feel bad that you’re going out of your way. I could’ve grabbed a cab.” I glance over at Liam as we wind through London’s streets, the bright city lights giving way to the quieter, more residential areas of Putney.

Having him take me home feels oddly intimate. Ever since our dance, my body has been on fire.

He may be sitting on his side of the car, but all I can focus on is the intoxicating scent of his cologne and the way his trousers envelop his powerful thighs. I can’t stop thinking about that unmistakable hardness pressed against me during our dance.

And that knowledge gives me a delicious thrill of power. He’s not immune to me. Beneath that cool exterior, he’s still a man with reactions. A very sexy, very dangerous man.

“It’s fine,” he says, his tone dismissive. “I invited you to this event, so I’ll see you home.”

“Well, technically, James is the one doing the heavy lifting,” I quip, flashing a smile at our driver. “You live in Vauxhall, right? Along the river?”

“That’s right,” Liam confirms, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

I’m taken aback by the gesture, considering he’ll have to backtrack quite a bit, and London traffic is a nightmare even at this hour.

“I’ve been thinking,” I venture, “about the regatta.”

“What about it?” he asks.

“It’s run by TLS, and it obviously means a great deal to Sir Whitmore.”

“Which is why I send boats to compete.”

“It’s not enough, though, is it?”

Liam leans back in his seat, looking relaxed, but there’s a sharp edge in his eyes. “I don’t need your help to win the regatta, Gemma. We always come out on top, and we hand over a fat check, more than double what they ask for.”

“It’s not about winning. It’s about building a relationship, about showing Sir Whitmore that you’re someone he can trust and work with,” I explain, feeling like I’m trying to teach empathy to a shark. “From his perspective, you don’t even bother to show up to the regatta, yet your company still takes home the trophy every time. And you’re an avid sailor, which only further rubs salt in the wound.”

Liam’s eyes narrow to slits. “I don’t mix business with pleasure. Sailing is my pleasure.” His voice drops an octave, turning rough and gravelly. “One of them, anyway.”

I squirm in my seat, the leather suddenly too hot against my bare thighs. My traitorous mind conjures up vivid images of Liam’s other “pleasures.”

“I know enough about the regatta to know that all the other companies treat it as a team-building event and a chance to mingle,” I press on, steering my thoughts to safer waters. “But you just send the best sailors in the company along with a mix of professionals.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is you should attend the regatta yourself. We’ll make it a proper team-building exercise and try to get on Sir Whitmore’s good side. He can see the nice, approachable boss spending time with his employees.” I smirk, unable to resist poking the bear. “We might need to work on that part. Maybe practice smiling in the mirror?”

Liam mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “bloody hell,” then lapses into silence, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the car window.

Finally, he turns to me. “All right. We’ll do it your way. I’ll grace the regatta with my presence. But you’ll be right there with me, every step of the way.”

I walked right into that one, didn’t I?

“Fine,” I agree, trying to sound nonchalant even as my stomach does a flip at the thought of spending an entire weekend with Liam in a non-work setting, at sea.

James pulls up to my street, and I give Liam a curt nod. “Thanks for the lovely evening. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow. For those interviews you promised you’d do with me, remember?”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

I’m out of the car and striding toward my door, my heels clicking on the pavement, when I hear a car door open and shut behind me. Suddenly, Liam is beside me, his long legs keeping pace with my shorter strides.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my pulse quickening.

“Walking you to your door,” he replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What did you think I was doing? Mugging you to steal your sparkly handbag?”

I roll my eyes. “I think I can manage the perilous journey from the curb to my entryway.”

He ignores me, continuing to walk beside me like some sort of stubborn, annoyingly attractive bodyguard.

Just as we reach my front steps, a loud “Meow” pierces the night air. Winnie comes barreling out from around the back garden, skidding to a halt when she sees me with Liam.

“Why aren’t you sleeping, Winnie?” I ask, bending down to scoop her up. “Has Auntie Lizzie been tormenting you again? Forcing you to watch Love Island reruns?”

Winnie just stares at me, then at Liam, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. I can practically hear her judgy thoughts. Well, well, well. Look who’s bringing home tall, dark, and brooding. You wish, love. As if you could handle all that.

I shoot her a warning glare, then turn to Liam, who’s watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and confusion.

“I assume this is the feline responsible for the delightful present left on my desk?” he asks.

“The very same.”

“Lovely.”

Seeing Winnie and Liam together, something horrific dawns on me. “I need to clear something up. I do not, um, perform . . . self-love . . . in front of cats. I mean the diary entry,” I add quickly as his eyebrow shoots up. “She kept scratching at the door, meowing loudly, and I had to let her in. I’m probably making this worse. Just forget it. Pretend I never mentioned my masturbatory habits or lack thereof in relation to feline presence.”

He chuckles, the bastard. To my shock, he bends down and strokes Winnie’s head, his large, strong hand gentle. Her tail shoots up, and the little hussy immediately starts purring, leaning into his touch like she’s known him all her life.

“It’s forgotten,” he murmurs, still stroking Winnie. I’m so mesmerized by the sight of him tenderly petting my cat that I forget what we were talking about for a moment. It’s like looking at those pictures of hot men with babies.

“Oh, right. Good,” I say, my voice breathless. “Um, do you have any pets?”

“No,” he replies, straightening up to his full, imposing height. “I don’t have time for pets.”

“I’d imagine you with a Pit Bull Terrier. Or maybe a shark in a very large aquarium.”

“Helloooo.” The front door creaks open to reveal a scantily clad Lizzie, her sleepy gaze widening. I don’t have a chance to blurt out an explanation before her mouth splits into a filthy grin. “Well hello there. Gemma, you didn’t tell me we were having company.”

“We’re not,” I say grimly, my teeth clenched. “Liam was just walking me to my door.”

“Liam?” she purrs. “Is he coming in for a cup of te—”

The rest of her sentence is drowned out as I practically hurl myself through the doorway, slamming it shut in Liam’s face.

“Woah there.” Lizzie smirks.

“Sorry,” I call out through the door. “Good night, Liam! Thanks again for the ride.”

I hear his muffled curse, followed by retreating footsteps. I turn to glare at Lizzie, who’s looking far too amused for my liking.

“What was that?” I hiss as Winnie wriggles out of my arms and darts off down the hall.

“If I had to guess?” Lizzie grins, leaning against the wall. “Your smoking hot boss walking you to the door, hoping you’d let him through it. Were you going to let him?”

“No!” I make a beeline for the kitchen, desperate to hide my burning cheeks. Would I have let him in? No. Absolutely not. Maybe. Fuck. “That would never happen.”

But Lizzie just singsongs after me: “Never say never.”

I grab a glass of water, gulping it down and trying to ignore the way my nerves are still on edge. I can’t help but wonder . . . what if I had let him in?

I toss my vibrator aside with a sigh, flopping back onto the bed. I’m dripping with sweat from head to toe. But I needed to purge this pent-up sexual tension that’s been buzzing under my skin all night.

I must stay focused on the prize. I’ve worked out that six months at my new salary will give me enough of a nest egg to take a breather and try to go it alone. Then I can jump ship and indulge in all the depraved fantasies I want about McLaren.

But even after that earth-shattering orgasm, I still can’t seem to drift off. And I have to drag my ass out of bed at an ungodly hour tomorrow morning for those interviews, with the man himself no less.

Just as I’m contemplating the merits of a second wank session to help me drift off, my phone lights up with a message. Who the hell is texting me at one a.m.?

I squint at the screen, my heart doing a jump. It’s not the first time Liam has messaged me in the middle of the night, but usually it’s about work, not . . . whatever this is.

Oh, fuck. I read the message again, heat pooling low in my core. Is he flirting with me? Or is he just pissed that I shut the door in his face?

I agonize over my response for what feels like an eternity.

I hit send before I can chicken out.

His reply comes almost instantly.

I sit bolt upright in bed, my eyes wide, my pulse thundering in my ears. Holy shit. Is “tea” some kind of euphemism?

Maybe he was just angling for an invite inside to chat up Lizzie. She was standing right there in the doorway wearing that lace nightie.

I need to shut this down. Be professional.

I’ve seen his overworked PA make it for him enough times to know his preferences.

And then a wink.

I stare at the screen, my eyes fixed on the emoji. I know I’m going to be starring in your dreams tonight, Gemma is what that wink is saying.

And damn him for being right.

I stride into the office at seven forty-five. Truth is I feel a little hungover after my drinks last night. And I didn’t sleep much either, with thoughts churning in my head.

But I don’t have time to wallow in my own misery, because Liam and I have a packed schedule of interviews, starting in thirty minutes.

I glance over at Liam’s office, expecting to see him already at his desk. It’s empty. He better not have forgotten. He never forgets anything, but he could just as easily dismiss me at the last minute and send someone in his place.

Grumbling under my breath, I pull out my phone and dial his number. Straight to voicemail. To make matters worse, I spotted our first interviewee already waiting in the reception area.

I approach his lovely, long-suffering PA. “Hey, Rosie. Is Liam in yet?”

“He is,” she confirms with an apologetic look. “But he went down to his private gym for a workout.”

I’m sorry, what the actual hell? My jaw clenches. “He has interviews.”

Rosie shrugs helplessly. “Sorry, Gemma.”

Fuck’s sake. “Can you do me a favor and ask reception to tell the first candidate that we are running slightly late?”

“Of course.” She smiles.

I spin on my heel and storm off toward the gym on the bottom floor. He better not pull out of these interviews after riding my ass so much about the recruitment campaign.

There’s the regular company gym for the likes of me, and then this fancy private gym just for the executive board bigwigs, like they’re too good to sweat with the rest of us.

I slip through the elevator doors before they’re fully open, stalking toward the executive gym with purpose.

I knock loudly on the door, the sound echoing through the hallway. No answer.

I knock again, harder this time, putting some real force behind it like I’m trying to break the frigging thing down.

The door flies open, and I’m confronted by a shirtless, sweat-glistened Liam.

His gym shorts hang low on his chiseled hips, his chest heaving with exertion. How is his chest so tanned when he’s covered up all day? There’s a trail of sweat dripping down his defined abs toward his . . .

Fuck.

He yanks off his boxing gloves, his breathing labored. “Yes?” he growls. Behind him, the punching bag is still swinging from his recent onslaught.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry, temporarily forgetting how to speak.

“We have interviews in fifteen minutes,” I say, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Did you forget?”

Liam curses under his breath.

“You did forget?” I ask. This is so unlike him, Mr. Always-In-Control-Never-Forgets-A-Thing.

“Didn’t sleep well,” he mutters. “Thought a workout would help clear my head.”

You and me both, I think with an inward grimace. I wonder if he was up doing what I was doing.

“The first candidate is already in reception,” I snap, refusing to let my gaze drift down his body again. “You’re supposed to be in a suit right now, not . . . this.” I wave my hand at his half-naked state, my cheeks flushing. “And it’s not just any candidate, it’s Kim Hye-jin!”

He knows this, and I’m positively seething. I’ve been building a rapport with Kim for weeks now, going back and forth. She’s a powerhouse in the private equity world, with an impressive track record in South Korea. We are so close to getting Kim to join our team, and I’ll be damned if I let Liam’s inability to put on a proper shirt ruin it all.

He reaches for a towel and starts wiping the sweat from his chest and abs with maddeningly slow strokes, his muscles flexing and rippling with each movement. The redheaded mermaid around his anchor tattoo shimmers in sweat, looking far too smug.

Is he doing this on purpose? Putting on a show to rile me up and mess with my head?

“I’m sure they can wait.”

“We have back-to-back interviews scheduled!” I explode. “This is important, Liam. I need you to cooperate today.”

“You seem rather wound up.”

I huff out a frustrated breath. “This recruitment took a lot of effort to arrange around your busy schedule.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, still clutching his boxing gloves. “All right, all right. I’ll go get changed. But you might want to get rid of some of that . . . anger before we meet the candidates.” There’s a wicked glint in his eye.

I blink at him, my cheeks flushing. “I’m perfectly capable of keeping my emotions in check, thank you very much.”

His smirk widens as he steps closer, invading my personal space until a mere foot separates us. I feel the heat radiating off his bare skin, smell his man sweat. “But wouldn’t you prefer to release some of that tension? Show me what you really think of me?” He holds out the gloves, his eyes challenging. “Go on. Let’s see how those boxing classes are going.” The two boxing classes, I want to add. “Do your worst.”

“What?” I stare at him, completely thrown. “Are you serious right now?”

When I don’t move to accept the gloves, he takes my wrist and slips one on, tightening the laces with practiced ease.

“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “You want me to . . . hit you?”

“Now’s your chance. You won’t get this opportunity again.”

He slides on the other glove and cinches it snugly, his fingers brushing against my skin. My pulse is thundering in my ears as the weight of the gloves registers.

“We don’t have time for whatever game this is,” I protest weakly. “This is absurd.”

“You don’t want to?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Because it seems like you do.”

I swallow hard, mouth dry as I gaze at his toned form. “I do,” I admit in a strangled whisper.

He puts his hands up, his stance relaxed, almost taunting. “Then do your worst.”

I stare at his rock-hard six-pack, my tongue darting out to wet my suddenly dry lips. Then, before I can overthink it, I pull my fist back and punch him square in the stomach, putting every ounce of frustration behind the blow.

And the insufferable bastard chuckles.

“It didn’t even move,” I cry in disbelief as my fist bounces off those abs with barely a ripple.

“Is that all you’ve got for me, Gemma?” he taunts silkily. “I thought you were supposed to be angry with me.”

Gritting my teeth, I rear back and punch him again even harder, channeling every scrap of confusing, lust-fueled anger into the strike. But his stomach remains unyielding, the muscles not even quivering under the force of my assault.

It’s like I’m caressing him with a feather instead of pummeling him with all my strength. How is that even possible? What is he made of, fucking steel?

The arrogant prick smirks at me lazily, his breathing even and controlled. It’s infuriating . . . humiliating . . . and, to my dismay, making heat rush straight to my core.

“Come on, you can do better than that,” he goads. “Put some real force behind it. Show me what you’ve got.”

Fine. If he wants me to bring it, I’ll fucking bring it.

I stare him straight in the eyes. But instead of aiming for his unbreakable abs again, I change trajectory at the last second, my fist lashing out to connect with his stubborn jawline in a vicious crack.

He’s not expecting it, his head snapping to the side with the force of the blow. He curses under his breath, rubbing his jaw, his eyes flashing with something dark and dangerous.

I look at him in horror, my heart pounding in my chest. I’ve gone too far. I’ve crossed a line, and now he’s going to—

“Feel better now?” Liam’s rough voice breaks into my panicked thoughts, his expression unreadable.

“A little.”

“Good.” In one smooth motion, he reaches out and begins deftly unlacing the boxing gloves from my trembling hands. “I’ll meet you in the conference room in ten minutes.”

And with that, he winks, turns on his heel, and walks away, leaving me standing there in the middle of the empty gym. My heart is pounding, my skin is flushed and tingling with a heady mixture of fear and arousal . . . and my mind is reeling.

Holy shit. What the hell just happened?

Did I really punch my boss in the jaw?

For the rest of the day, I’m stuck beside him in interviews, watching him rub the spot I decked. Every time his fingers graze the spot, it sends a jolt through me. I don’t think it hurt him; he’s just reminding me of what I did like a naughty little secret between us.