“You thanked me already.”
“Not in person.”
“How did they collect the proof? Email?”
“Nope, they’re old school. Courier. They only expected pictures.”
He dismisses that: “I’d have sent his tongue as well but I still need it.”
I cluck mine. “Ears and tongues are noticeable.”
“And hands aren’t?”
“Okay, maybe you should ease up on the amputation stuff.”
“Why? You clearly enjoy my gifts.” My eyes widen at his audacity. But before I have a chance to argue, he drawls, "Stay in your seat.”
I watch as he climbs out of the car, rounds the fender, and then opens the door for me. I don’t catch his expression, just glance at what’s right in front of me.
And I swallow.
I’ve seen enough hard-ons to know that Maxim’s packing one.
Unapologetically.
The internal quiver is something that needs shoring up. I pack it away to think about, to fantasize over later, and I accept his hand as I get to my feet.
I stare up at him, a long way up because I’m not wearing heels.
He steps into me as another vehicle approaches, and the pressure of him against my hip has me wishing he’d lean down and kiss me.
What is he waiting for?!
I want to scream the words. But I don’t.
I wish I could read his mind, understand what I have to do to make him act, but I’m at a loss.
Unless…Iact.
Seizing the moment, I surge onto tiptoe and press my lips to the soft skin below his jaw. It’s embarrassing but that’s all I can reach. His swift inhalation fuels my courage as I rest my hands on his waist, the silk vest a caress against fingertips that would prefer to feel the silk of his skin.
I should have done this last night when he was naked.
Or sweaty. Or both. Wet, too.
Fuck.
All of the above, please?
An exhale whooshes over my forehead and just as I think he won’t act, his hand tips up my chin and his lowers and?—
Oh.
God.
The brush of our lips is nothing I expected and everything I hoped for.
It’s expert.
