“And yet I did.” She hands me a glass and settles onto the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. The movement makes her dress ride up slightly, revealing a stretch of bare calf.
I sit beside her—not too close, not too far. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body, far enough to maintain some semblance of control.
We sip our wine in silence.
“So,” she says.
“So.”
“That happened.” Her mouth twitches with a smile.
“It did.”
“We kissed. At a charity gala. In a storage room.”
“Also in my truck.”
“Also in your truck.” She takes another sip of wine and sets down her glass. Reaching out, she takes my hand. Her fingers are small and warm, interlacing with mine.
I look at our joined hands, then at her face—open, hopeful, and so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
And then I stop thinking.
I set down my wine, pull her toward me and kiss her again.
She responds immediately, melting into me, her hands finding my shoulders, my neck, pushing into my hair. The kiss deepens, our tongues sliding together, and before I fully register what’s happening, she’s climbing into my lap.
She straddles me on the couch, her knees bracketing my hips, her dress bunched around her thighs. The heat of her settles against me, and I groan into her mouth.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmurs against my lips.
“Mm-hmm.” I kiss along her jaw, her neck, the sensitive spot behind her ear.
“This wasn’t in our agreed-upon boundaries.”
“Nope.” I trace her collarbone with my tongue, and she shivers.
“But you feel so good.” She rolls her hips, grinding down against me, and my hands grip her waist. “So big and hard and—”
“Win.” Her name is a warning. A plea. “Fuck.”
She keeps moving—slow, deliberate rolls of her hips that drive me insane. I can feel her heat through the thin fabric of her underwear and my dress pants. I’m so hard it hurts.
“Is this okay?” she asks, breathless.
“Yeah.” The word comes out strangled. “Yeah, this is—fuck, Win—”
I can’t take it anymore.
I standsuddenly, lifting her with me. She squeaks in surprise, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively.
“Banks—”
I find the zipper at the back of her dress and draw it down slowly, deliberately. The fabric loosens, gaping open, and I set her down just long enough for it to fall.
It pools at her feet, and suddenly she stands in front of me in nothing but a tiny nude-colored thong.
My brain short-circuits. Complete blue screen of death.
