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“You’re still wearing a suit.”
He leaned down, circled her nipple with his tongue. “Give me a hand with the tie, would you?”
“You’re making me crazy,” she managed as she struggled to loosen the tie, tug it off.
“Still no intention of stopping.” But he shrugged out of his jacket as he feasted lazily on her breasts. “You look like a pagan. A pagan warrior queen.” He scraped his teeth along her throat. “Naked, glowing, wearing nothing but ropes of diamonds.”
“I want you inside me.” Breath tearing, she bit at his ear. “Hot, hard inside me.”
“My hands are busy at the moment.” He filled them with her breasts. “I’ll need help getting out of this shirt.”
She reached up, tore it open, sending buttons flying.
“Well, that’s one way.”
“It’s how it works when you’re a pagan warrior queen. Take me.” She gripped his hair, yanked his mouth to hers. “I want you to take me like there’s nothing you need more.”
“There isn’t. It’s you. It’s always you.”
But he eased back to deal with the rest of his clothes and used his eyes on her as effectively as he had his hands.
“Everything in me skips and scrambles when you look at me like that.”
“You’re mine.” And that brought him something beyond excitement, something deeper than passion. “You’re mine,” he said again.
And when she lifted her arms to him, brought him to her, chained him to her, he took her as if there was nothing he needed more.
PEABODY YAWNED UNTIL HER JAW CRACKED AS she contemplated her breakfast choices. In order to start the day right, in a healthy, body-conscious state, she shouldn’t have the bagel and schmear. She should choose the fruity yogurt. She certainly shouldn’t have the bagel and schmear and the fruity yogurt.
And she shouldn’t even think of the possibility of the cherry Danish she could pick up on the way to Central.
Why did she always think of the damn cherry Danish in the morning? She wasn’t entirely sure the thought of it didn’t put an extra pound on her ass.
“I’m having the fruity yogurt, and that’s it.”
At his seat at their tiny kitchen table, McNab poked at his bowl of Crispy Crunchie Charms and said nothing.
Peabody doctored her coffee first and wished the stupid low-cal sweetener tasted as good as the wonderful zillion-cal sweetener. But she felt righteous if deprived, sitting down with the healthy yogurt and the low-cal coffee.
She wished she could eat bowls of Crispy Crunchie Charms with an ocean of soy milk like McNab and his skinny
ass that never seemed to gain an ounce.
Life was definitely unfair when your metabolism had all the zip of a lame turtle.
She drank some coffee, and felt her brain start to clear. She liked the way the sun came in their kitchen window in the morning, and played through the bright yellow curtains she’d made herself—still hadn’t lost her Free-Ager skills, she thought.
She’d enjoyed making the curtains, selecting the fabric, designing a pattern, sitting down at her little machine to whip it all together into something pretty and functional.
Plus McNab had been mega-impressed.
One day she’d actually finish hooking the rug she’d started for the living area, and that would knock him right out of his gel-boots.
He got such a kick out of the fact she could make stuff, so that added more pleasure and satisfaction to the making. It was good to have their things mixed and matched together in their own apartment. Her dishes with his pub glasses, her chair, his table. Just theirs now.
And it was good, really good, to sit with him in the mornings when their shifts meshed, eating together, talking.
As she drank more coffee, she realized he wasn’t eating, or talking.
