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Somehow, I managed to talk to her for a few more minutes without begging her to slip her fingers beneath that thin lace.
And now after walking around for the better part of two days fighting the call of that photo, I’m finally home.
I punch in the door code and glare down at my fly, willing it to behave.
She’s sitting at the dining room table I never used before she moved in. Her laptop is open and there are reports scattered across the surface. She looks so good, I have a hell of a time fighting the urge to throw her over my shoulder and tote her back to my bed.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
“Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.”
She stands, looking like she’s about to come over, but then stops like she isn’t quite sure how to behave all of a sudden. Which sucks, but I get it.
And we’ll get past it.
“Stealth mode.” I round the table, waving her in for a hug. “Either that or you were deep in the spreadsheets.”
She laughs, moving into my side. And when she relaxes there and that brief awkwardness melts away? Damn, it feels good.
“How was your trip?” she asks when I let her go.
“Stuck on the tarmac for ninety minutes before takeoff.” We walk back to my room, and I set my bag on the bed to unpack, trying not to think about the last time we were in it together.
It’s made. No sign she’s been staying in it. Because of course she wouldn’t.
She’s got her own room. We’ve got a plan.
I’m good with it.
She stands at the doorway to the closet. Was she just looking at the bed too?
“It must drive you crazy with how much you travel.”
Small talk. Got it. I’m down.
“Nah. Delays happen.” I unload my bag, tossing the laundry into one bin and the dry-cleaning into another. “So long as I’m not the one causing it, it doesn’t bother me.”
“Right, the timely one,” she teases softly.
I undo my tie, letting it hang as I start on the buttons of my shirt… and try not to think about when she’d been the one with her fingers in them. Or the sounds she made when I was inside her. How wet she was.
Christ, or the way she looked at me when she was on the edge, and I finally took her over.
So not cool.
God, I’m an asshole. It’s nothing new, but for this girl, I don’t want to be.
I need to turn around and talk to her like I’m not dying to know what color her panties are.
Simple. I’ve got this.
Taking a deep breath, I turn and— freeze.
Because the way she’s looking at me? Well, I’m not feeling so guilty about my wayward thoughts all of a sudden.
Her cheeks are pink, her bottom lip trapped in the clasp of her teeth. Her eyes are hot, locked on what I’m pretty sure is the top inch of my Tom Ford boxer briefs visible above my suit pants.
Damn.
