“Uh,” he said, flexing his hand. “Shall we try that again?”
“Sure.” My thighs felt like they were on fire now; it was as if his fingers had blazed a trail down them and now they were burning. He turned around and bent lower this time. I took a slight running jump and landed on his back. He grabbed me behind my knees and pulled me onto him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and then, God, I couldn’t help it, but I laughed.
“What?” he asked.
I tried to speak through my laughter. “This,” I said. “I’m on your back.”
“It would seem so.” I heard a small smile in his voice as we started walking.
“Hey!” A thought hit me. “How are we climbing down the ladder?”
“We’ll take the long way down,” he said.
And it was the long way. He walked . . . and walked . . . and walked. It seemed to go on forever. My laughter finally subsided and was replaced by something else. Being this close to him meant I could smell him. And I could feel how big and hard he was. How strong he was, able to carry me like this, as if I was as light as a piece of paper. Slowly, very slowly, I brought my nose to his neck and inhaled quietly. At that moment, his head moved to the side, and my nose and then my mouth and then my chin came into contact with the side of his neck. It smelt salty and of sandalwood all at the same time, and I didn’t pull away immediately. In fact, I stayed there a second too long, breathing him in, letting my lips trail slightly across the side of his rough neck.
CHAPTERFIFTY-THREE
Ryan
He sat there holding onto the steering wheel. The car was running but he hadn’t pulled away yet. His eyes stared straight ahead, but he was acutely aware of her presence next to him, and even more acutely aware of her state of undress. He was also now very aware of how her lips felt on the side of his neck, how she smelt, how her upper thighs felt when he’d gripped them and how her breasts felt, pushing into his back and . . .
He cast a quick glance her way and ran his eyes over her before she noticed. His jacket was loose on her, exposing her breasts ever so slightly. They were full, and her chest was pale and soft-looking. A few freckles dotted her collarbones, running across them like a spray of small stars. Her bra was a soft pink color, blending almost perfectly with her skin, making her look naked . . . and then another thought flashed through his mind. An unwelcome thought that he sincerely hoped he had the common sensenotto act on.
“Uh,” he mumbled.Stop it, Ryan! Fucking stop thinking it.“Uh.”Don’t say it, don’t say it, he quickly repeated in his head. But before he could finish mentally warning himself, she jumped in.
“I know. I know how inappropriate that was and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I mean, of course I didn’t mean to. It was an accident, and I know you told me to be careful and I tried, but I always seem to land myself in these—”
“Is that a balconette bra?” He went there and immediately regretted it.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
He didn’t need to look at her to know how shocked she was by his question.
“I asked,” he persisted, trying to sound perfectly normal, as if he was asking about the weather or telling her to send an email, “is that a balconette bra? Is that what you would call it?”
“Uh . . . uh . . .” she stuttered. “I guess so. Why?”
“You guess, or you know?” He turned and looked at her. As he did, a pretty pink color crept into her cheeks and she looked . . .fuck. She looked good. He tried to keep his eyes glued to her face and not let them drift down to where they wanted to go. God, this was inappropriate. Mind you, every single thing about the day had been inappropriate.
“Yes,” she whispered, locking eyes with him. “It’s a balconette bra.”
“Is that a good kind to wear, I mean . . . is it comfortable and, uh . . . does it do its job?” he asked in a businesslike fashion.
“Its job?”
“Yes. Does it, you know . . . hold them in . . . uh, keep them in . . . uh . . . do they feel . . .” He was grappling to find the words. “Supported?” He finally found the right word and spat it out.
She gasped slightly. “You want to know if my breasts feel supported?”
“NO!” he quickly corrected. “I don’t want to know anything of the sort. I’m not asking about your breasts—”
“Yes, you are,” she cut him off.
He shook his head. “I’m asking a technical question about the clothing you are wearing—to be more specific, your bra. I am trying to ascertain whether or not it does its job? That is all, Miss Granger.” This conversation had gone totally pear-shaped. He knew that, and unfortunately his question wasn’t exactly one he could take back either. It was out there. No salvaging this.
“Uh . . .” She looked down at her breasts.
And this time he couldn’t help it, but his eyes drifted there momentarily. God, they were beautiful. Small, but perfect-looking.
