He added, “Stay back here as long as you want, though. You’re welcome whenever.”
“It’s fine. I should be heading out anyway. I have emails to answer and a flight to rebook back at my hotel.” She smiled at him. “Will I see you tonight, at the Spite House tour?”
“Count on it.” The man threw off enough heat to rival one of his ovens, and she did her best not to sway into that tempting warmth. “Before you go, I need your number. And one other thing.”
“What?”
Levering himself away from her, he jerked his chin toward the interior of his office. Toward privacy. When he stepped away, stepped through the doorway, the rush of cooler air didn’t do anything to ease the fevered flush of her cheeks, the budding warmth between her legs.
She followed him in silence. Once inside, she shut the door behind them. Locked it.
A flush darkened his cheeks and spread down his neck. He stood in front of his desk. Kicked aside the cheap office chair positioned between them. Crooked his finger.
She took her time answering his summons, because he deserved a little suffering after turning down her earlier invitation to bed.
“Five minutes, my next timer goes off.” His dark stare devoured her as she drew near. “Till then, I want to kiss you. That okay with you?”
“Well, yeah.” She gave a breathless laugh. “I mean, I already suggested that we fuck, so...”
His exhalation hitched at the wordfuck. “You want me to stop, something doesn’t feel good, you tell me so. Got it, Dearborn?”
She nodded.
Then his mouth found hers, and there were no more questions. No more concerns. Just heat and pleasure.
Just Karl.
His long fingers cradled her jaw with tense care, and the kiss began as a slow, tender slide of their lips. Gentle brushes of warmth and pressure that stole her breath and blanked her racing thoughts. Not tentative in any way—just very, very restrained.
Karl Dean might seem larger than life, but he was also a baker. He knew how to be precise.
Her mouth opened in a sharp indrawn breath at his first tongue-flick, and he nudged a little harder. Pressed a little closer. Tilted his head to seal their lips together and trace the curve of her smile with that slick, delicious, talented tongue.
He’d drizzled honey into the iced tea he kept beside him as he worked, and she could taste it in his mouth. Taste that familiar amber sweetness, the freshness of the mint leaves he’d muddled into his drink, as their tongues slipped and twined and explored.
He smelled like freshly baked bread. Felt like a sun-scorched stone monolith under her hands. Breathed like a set of bellows between endless kisses. Tunneled the fingers of his free hand into herhair and curled them into a fist with extraordinary caution, because he obviously had no desire to cause her pain, even in the pursuit of pleasure.
That gentleness—the contrast with his rough exterior and demeanor—unleashed something wild within her.
His shoulders tensed into bunched caps of muscle when she braced herself against their strength and arched her hips to rub against him. He was hard, his cock prodding her thigh. Sturdy and reliable as an oak under her hands. Everything she’d wanted for twenty long, starved years.
He ground his erect dick against her, groaning.
Then his timer went off.
He lurched backward, panting and wild-eyed, and took a half-dozen hasty steps away from her.
“Not yet.Not fucking yet,” he mutter-shouted, possibly under the impression she couldn’t hear him.
She ambled forward again, until they were belly to belly, and disabused him of that notion. “You sure? Because I’m more than willing to—”
“Go.” His voice was strangled. “Have some goddamn mercy, Molly, and pleasego.”
So she gathered her bag, tucked away the paper-wrapped roast beef, cheddar, and chutney sandwich he pressed wordlessly into her hands, and left Grounds and Grains with a satisfied smile on her face.
Karl might want to wait for sex. But that first kiss between them had been even better—even hotter—than she’d imagined as a horny, naïve teenager two decades ago. And they were seeing each other again in a few hours. At night. In a non-workplace location.
To borrow his vocabulary: Karl Dean was fuckingtoast.
