Page 138 of The Difference Between

His hands are back on my face, this time holding me tight. “You care that I’m thirty and cut grass?”

My panic ebbs with my smile. “Not even a little bit.”

He kisses me then, just barely. Just a second and without urgency. The way you kiss someone you know you’ll kiss again and again. Who you want to shut up as much as want to comfort. “Okay,” he says, still close. “Then we do this one day at a time and figure it out together.”

“No plans and teamwork,” I murmur. “My specialties.”

He chuckles between kisses. “I’ll teach you.”

“Really?” His mouth moves to my jaw and turns the cool breeze blowing through the shop to a pure heat that forms in my low belly then works its way up. My arousal takes on a life of its own and sends my hips scooting toward his. In his ear, I whisper, “What else can you teach me?”

His gaze drops to where my dress is bunched around my hips and my bare thighs are hugging his. I rock against him, once, then squeeze my legs into him like a vise. When his eyes meet mine, they’re anything but bright—they’re hot. Hotter than the glass cooking in any box in this shop.

He wets his lips—I imagine him hitching my dress up the rest of the way and bending me over this table—then our mouths collide. Hands roaming, tongues reaching.

I fist his shirt; he grips my hips.

My ankles hook behind his back and my dress rides up high enough my ass meets cool stainless steel.

I rock against him, the buckle of his belt giving me just enough friction to keep rocking.

Then I whimper.

Gavin growls—I must like growling—and pulls back. His lips are wet, and there are about three places I’d like for him to put them.

His gaze drops to my dress. “Can we take this off?”

I nod, breathless, interlacing my fingers behind his neck so I can keep rocking. “Please.”

He fumbles with the first button and mutters a swear. Too bad for me, there are about thirty-five more.

We’re kissing again, aggressive and hungry.

“Shit,” he says into my mouth. “This dress expensive?”

I bite his lip. “Very.”

I’m rocking and rocking and he’s still fumbling with the first button. It would be funny if it wasn’t infuriating.

“How much do you care?”

I let out a wanton laugh. “Nowhere near as much as I care about what you’re about to teach me.”

His fingers still and he looks at me.

“Do it,” I tell him.

And he does.

With both hands at the neckline, he yanks the fabric apart, sending every button popping off and rendering me fully exposed.

And: Holy hell in a whorehouse.

When he sees I’m not wearing a bra and my panties are a thin layer of lace, his eyes flare and his hand cups my breast, thumb circling.

He leans forward to kiss me, but I have become a sex-crazed feral cat because I dodge his mouth to put my mouth on his jaw.

And lick.