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Hey eyes widen, and after a hard jerk of her hips, she starts to tremble in my arms, unraveling before my eyes. I work her through the orgasm, wanting to wring another from her body.
Her hand comes down to mine, pushing it away. I relent.
Eyes the color of melted chocolate flick up to my face, and she leans back onto the desk.
Before those whip-smart eyes open all the way, I drop soft kisses to her mouth.
“Feel better?” I ask. I use my leg to drag the office chair closer, while keeping my hands on her and pulling her off the desk and into my lap. Rubbing her back, her sides, I hold the woman who’s dominated my thoughts for longer than any other woman.
Her head rests against my shoulder, and once her breathing evens out, she wiggles her juicy ass against my neglected dick. “What about you?”
I press a kiss to her hair and her forehead before saying, “Don’t worry about it.”
“But that’s not fair.”
I tug her up so I can see her eyes. “I’m not worried about fair, Imp. There’s no tit for tat. I just wanted to make you feel good.”
“Mission accomplished.” She gives me a tired smile. Like she could fall asleep right here in my arms, surrounded by a heap of paperwork and clutter, and nothing would make her happier.
“Now,” I say in a teasing tone, “don’t think this counts as the second date. This was date one point five. You free on Tuesday?”
She smiles at me. “Yeah, I’m free on Tuesday.”
“Okay, Cynthia. I’ll pick you up at four.”
“Still not my name, but that was a little closer.”
We sit together in silence, me occasionally stroking a hand down her back or up her arm. The feel of her is so damn right in my arms that I know I’m in trouble.
This feisty firebrand has imprinted herself on me, and I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t convince her to give me, or us, a chance.
CHAPTER 8
Chip
“Holy shit, look at that one.” I point to a detailed gingerbread replica of the Eiffel Tower.
Warrick picked me up, and once again, I had no idea what we were doing today, but was pleasantly surprised when he brought me to the gingerbread competition that the town hosts during the holiday season.
Looking at some of the displays, there’s no way that I could ever enter this without being embarrassed from my measly efforts at using icing to stick giant chunks of cookie together in the name of holiday tradition.
So far we’ve seen a Christmas village with a complete nativity scene, Big Ben’s clock tower at the Houses of Parliament, and the replica of the Eiffel Tower.
I point to a less drastic house, and while it’s a little wobbly on its stand, it’s closer to what I might be able to produce.
“Oh, that one’s cute.”
“Yeah, this is the kids’ section.”
Talk about being humbled. I do a double take at the houses around us and feel inferior to the creative ability of kids that are still in school. Here I am, a fully grown adult—a home and business owner—and there’s no way I’d be able to create something like the talent that I’m seeing here.
“It’s enough to give a girl a complex if I let it.”
Warrick laughs at me and threads his fingers through mine. We both got a hot chocolate from one of the vendors set up outside of the event, and we’re meandering around taking in all of the entries. “I’m sure your talents lie in other areas.”
Yeah, right.
As we walk around, everyone stops Warrick for a word or two. Some are surprised to see us together, others aren’t. Most just make small talk or ask him about various December events and if he’s planning on being around.
