The Carrero Effect - Falling for the Boss (Billionaire CEO) novel Chapter 46

“Dance with me, Jake.” The slurring, flirty, female voice sounds so bold.

Who said that? I think that was my voice, wasn’t it? Damn, maybe.

I guess by the way he smiles at me in response, it was. I feel merry. I like being merry, it’s kind of light and warm. I’m completely aware that my internal dialog is that of a very drunk person with no filter but he says nothing, just puts his beer down, slides me toward him with a firm hand, and pulls me toward the dance floor with ease.

He’s smooth. Why would I expect any less from Casanova Carrero?

He manhandles women effortlessly on a daily basis. Lots of practice at it. Well, not so much lately as he seems to be cooling his jets on the women front. There hasn’t been a girl on the scene for a couple of weeks at least, maybe longer, but I hadn’t noticed at first.

It’s a slower song and he moves in close to me as we join the throng of dancers. It’s hard to dance when you’re this drunk and in very high heels on jelly legs. I’m swaying, but I don’t think it’s in time to the music. I trip, stumble into Jake’s nice strong arms, glad he knows just how to catch me, and I gasp in fright. He’s good at pulling my body into his in a hurry mid catastrophe, saving me from myself.

God, he smells good! My hero! Who would have thought slinky boss Carrero was my sexy savior? Cute and hot—yes! Hero. Most definitely!

“Maybe we should go, tiny?” he seems uneasy and puts me back on my own feet, at arm’s length. Startling me with what seems like nervous tension.

Except that can’t be right because my boss is never nervous. He’s always Mr. Confident.

“I want to stay and … Let my hair down.” I giggle and fall into him again as I lose my footing for the second time, my shoe moving into a right angle that should have broken my ankle ordinarily. He catches me and my nose grazes his collar bone getting a lungful of Carrero scent. It’s pretty heady; his aftershave and his personal smell, an intoxicating mixture. I could breathe it in, over and over, enjoying how unique it is. Enamored with it and how he’s so good, strong, powerful and safe …

Crap, what am I doing?

If I keep this up, I know I’m going to do something stupid, like the kiss in my mother’s bed. I’ve snaked my hands around his neck and I’m nuzzling my face into his chest without even being aware of my own body’s actions. I’m too drunk, this is a bad idea. Almost as brazen as the night I kissed him in his sleep.

“Okay. Time to go, tootsie.” He unravels my arms from his neck, leans down and picks me up, lifting me up in a fireman’s hold, so my face is behind him. One easy swoop. His firm hands around my thighs, holding them tight against his muscular chest. I wonder if this is a safety precaution so I can’t attempt to seduce him. I’m too drunk to react and I’m kind of glad to be off those shoes; my ankle is tingling. I’m dizzy and I don’t think I should stay and explore what I was attempting to do.

Good save, Mr. Carrero. I can’t trust myself, but I can trust you to look after me.

I hang down his back limply, sliding my arms around his sides so they come around his waist to the front. I can trace out his taut stomach muscles under my flattened palms and have to quell the urge to slide my hand inside his shirt for a better feel. I lay my cheek against his back, closing my eyes at the familiarity of him instead, inhale that citrus goodness. I give in to the motion of his walk as he takes me out of the pumping club. There are a lot of glances our way, but Jake doesn’t seem to care. I guess a Neanderthal carrying a drunk woman out of a club in Vegas is a normal occurrence.

* * *

In the car he lays me down flat on my back and pulls off my shoes, cradling my feet in his lap with warm sensual hands kneading them softly, avoiding conversation or eye contact; I nestle my head against the door to stop the world spinning.

His hands are exquisite on my ankles and feet and it feels better than good; no one’s ever taken my shoes off like this. No one has ever just run soft fingers over my feet at all, the way he’s doing now. He’s gentle and attentive, something most people would not expect of Jake Carrero. Handsy, but not in a sleazy way, not really, despite all his jokes and sexual innuendos. He just always makes me feel safe.

“Are you mad at me for being this drunk, and making you bring me home?” I ask, trying to understand his somber look. My voice is almost vulnerable. Wounded.

“No … I like this side of you. I just wasn’t feeling it anymore, figured it was a good time to leave.” He throws me a small quick smile and looks away again. His eyes so dark with emotion. I hate seeing him like this and want to know what’s wrong.

“Then why so glum, Mr. Cartierro?” my joke again, rising from my last drunken bout.

How funny.

I giggle impulsively and he laughs softly. He remembers my joke too.

I love his laugh.

“There’s so much about you that you keep from me … Your mother … Nightmares.” He releases my arm and leans away, shoving his shoulder against the door, resting his head against the frame dejectedly. I wonder why this is going through his head now, after a great night.

Why now?

“My mom’s a Pandora’s box, Jake … I wouldn’t know where to begin with her. Yes, I have dreams about what Ray did to me. I didn’t think it was something I had to share … Are you upset with me?” I sit up a little, trying to read his expression, his hand comes up to the side of his face cushioning it from the door frame and he’s glaring outside. He doesn’t reply. I know he’s mulling over Vanquis, both the past, in my teens, and more recently in Chicago.