After unloading the items on the counter, I turned to find Joan standing behind me, staring at me curiously.
“Why do you do that?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Belittle yourself,” she replied. “Pretend you’re not one hundred percent devoted to your craft and all the work you’ve done to accomplish your goals.”
My insides squirmed uncomfortably. “I guess ... I guess it fits the expectation better. The brand. Gotta give the people what they want, right?”
“You don’t need to minimize yourself, Ian. Not for me. There was never a time when I thought you were untalented. But after getting to know you and hearing you talk about your job, I have a better understanding of the work you put in, the dedication, the long hours, the sacrifices. You want to make it sound like you just stand in the right spot and recite a few lines, but I know better. You don’t need to pretend to be a fool or play dumb.”
The whole time she spoke, she moved closer. My heart rate increased with every step.
The tips of our sock-covered feet touched by the time she looked at me earnestly and said, “What I want from you doesn’t involve you being clueless about anything, and I sure as hell don’t want you faking it for my benefit.”
I searched her face, looking for meaning, for confirmation, for a sign that Joan wanted me the way I wanted her.
“Is that so?” I asked.
She lifted a hand and placed it against my stomach, just above the waistband of my jeans. Her touch was warm through the fabric as her fingers climbed upward, over my abs to rest on my chest.
“That’s right,” she finally answered.
I felt myself smile, something small and hopeful, unwilling to commit to a full-blown grin just in case I was reading her signals wrong. “I don’t want you to fake anything either,” I confessed.
Joan’s hand snaked around the back of my neck, drawing me down to her.
When we were close enough to breathe the same air, I watched her pretty blue eyes crinkle in amusement. With a teasing challenge in her voice, she said, “Then I guess you’d better give it your best effort.”
I huffed a short laugh as her fingers sifted through the hair at my nape. Our mouths found one another, turning my amusement into something slower, quieter, and infinitely necessary, stealing my breath and narrowing my focus.
There was only Joan and this moment.
She relaxed against me, and I bent to scoop her up.
Her legs wrapped around my hips easily, and I could feel her everywhere. Her hands in my hair, her arms draped over my shoulders, the heat of her cradling the attraction I couldn’t begin to hide.
I squeezed, holding her tight. I wanted to swallow her whole.
Because whatever this was, it wasn’t reckless or hasty. There was nothing careless about the way I wanted her.
And like she’d demanded only moments ago ... I was done pretending.
Joan
Ian’s forehead was pressed to mine, and we were still standing in my kitchen, locked together.
I knew he was strong. I had eyes, after all. The man had muscle groups on display that I’d only ever seen on professional athletes and Olympians. But the effortless way he held me made me very aware that he could stand here all day with my legs around his waist and his hands under my backside.
I used my teeth to tug on his lower lip, urging him into action. The move made him groan, and me smile. His big hands squeezed my ass as he finally moved, pressing my back against the nearest wall and kissing the hell out of me.
His tongue stroked inside my mouth, and I relished the urgency, the need, matching it with my own.
My nails scratched gently over his scalp before smoothing along the baby-fine hairs buzzed soft and short. I loved this. I’d dreamed of touching him this way—wild and affectionate at the same time, running my fingers through his hair. Throughout the movie, I’d wondered what it would be like to have Ian’s head in my lap while we watched. Now, I couldn’t imaginenottouching him like this.
He was warm and hard all over. His erection settled heavily against my center, and I fought the desire to hurry him along.
For a long time, I’d controlled my own pleasure. Men hadn’t really been worth the effort, and dating had been a lesson in torture. I’d been content with the vibrator in my bedside table. An orgasm had seemed like an occasional necessity, used to release tension and achieved in the manner I did everything in my life—quickly and efficiently.
