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Did he have any fantasies?
Of what? Fucking her in his office?
How about in the high school locker room, under the bleachers of the football stadium, or in his twin bed at Bernadette’s, or on a blanket behind a sand dune?
“Only if you counted the years between eighth grade and present day, and every single fucking day in between,” he said, remaining as free from expression as possible.
“You fantasized about having sex on your desk in eighth grade?”
Crap. He had overshared. Over the years he had fantasized about having sex with her, anytime and anywhere. Keeping his options open when it came to sexual fantasies of Birdie Wellborn.
She didn’t need to know those fantasies lasted well into adulthood.
“I was your typical fourteen-year-old boy. Sex was on my mind twenty-four seven. Most graphically during REM sleep. I busted out some of my best moves while snoring.”
To his Neanderthal discredit, the thought of her ass up, on top of his desk, topped the charts of all the fantasies he had of this woman.
She peered over his shoulder, and it was all he could do to refrain from biting her neck and yanking the hem of her skirt up, pulling down her panties and slapping her ass for all the impromptu erections she had encouraged over the years.
His dick jumped at the thought of his hand meeting the soft flesh of her ass cheek, while she lay face down on his desk.
“Just so I know,” she said. “Does this desk have any historical significance? You know, before we get down and dirty on it, and I scratch my nails on the custom-crafted woodwork worth half a jillion dollars?”
Lucas couldn’t help but pop out a half grin. “Did you just say, ‘Get down and dirty’?”
Her eyebrows came together. “Hey, I spend the majority of my days with women twice my age and a burly Scotsman. What do I know about age-appropriate dirty talk?”
It was odd how she could appear to be a sexually charged woman one minute and an ingénue the next. Resulting in an irresistible enigma. A puzzle he was half afraid to figure out, because to pull together all of her pieces and parts might uncover her one true identity. The one he wasn’t sure he was prepared for.
He gazed into her smirk of a smile, his slacks a thinly veiled lost cause for subduing the girth growing beneath the zipper.
His fingers white-knuckled the lip of the desk behind him. At this rate, Carhartt overhauls wouldn’t disguise how hard he was for her.
“The desk is worthless,” he rasped as if losing his voice. “You can scratch it all you want or need to.”
Her finger began to make the trek from his chest downward. He sucked in a breath as they splayed over his stomach, dipping her fingers beneath the leather of his belt, teasing him. She moved those teasing fingers to the buckle, the expression on her face daring him to stop her.
So he did, grabbing her wrists to pause her movements. Her beautiful green eyes, turning uncertain and then peeved.
He had to be responsible. Keep his head about himself. This wasn’t the private room of a strip club or the back alley of The Whiskey House. Rather, he was standing in his esteemed office, working a job he was elected to by the good graces of the constituents of Wayward.
So he did the only thing his lizard brain would allow him to do under the circumstances and what felt like his heartbeat pounding in his dick.
He strode to the door and turned the lock, like he done in his garage. Somehow that one small act made him feel responsible and absolved of any wrongdoing.
Stalking back toward her, he could see her eyes turning hopeful. Even a little uncertain as she bit her bottom lip and tucked her hair behind her ear.
He stopped a few feet in front of her, keeping his eyes riveted to hers as he removed his belt the rest of the way with a jerky motion. Lowering himself onto the chair he folded the thin strip of leather and faced her and his desk.
“This is my fantasy,” he said, leaning back in the chair and rubbing his finger across his bottom lip. “So we do this my way.”
“Okay,” she breathed, her weight moving from one foot to the other, as if unsure what came next.
“Take off your clothes.”
He followed her movements as she turned slightly toward the window, as if determining their level of privacy in the room. Thankfully, he had lowered the blinds against the bright streaks of sun earlier in the day.
As if satisfied they had adequate privacy, she began to pull her blouse over her head. “You might want to expand your fantasy repertoire,” she said. “Me stripping for you seems kind of redundant.”
