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“Perfect timing. I was about to resort to delivery.” I walk over, soaking in her beauty and trying to read her face. Other than a few emails, I haven’t talked her to while Lis has been here. “I thought you were avoiding me.”
“Me?” She makes a choking noise to express her offense. “You are the one avoiding me.”
“I don’t want to be pushy.”
“Since when?”
“Wine?” I offer. Now that she’s here, I want to give her as many reasons to stay as possible.
“Sure.” She settles on one of the barstools and props her chin in her hands. I deliver her a glass of wine, stealing a kiss as I do. She tastes like Talia—in other words, heaven.
“Nate came by the spa today.”
“What did he think?” She sits straighter, perking up at the mention of work. On the clock. That’s my girl.
“He thinks we’re a good team.”
A trickle of alarm slips into her eyes but quickly vanishes.
“I might have to hire you again if this works out.” When she’s silent, I continue. “Have you thought about what sort of projects you’ll take on? How’s the website coming along?”
“Prisha is a godsend. I swear if I can make this work, I’ll hire her on as my assistant.”
“When, Wildflower,” I correct. “When you make this work.”
She blushes prettily. “When.”
I can’t resist her for another minute. “I’ve missed you like crazy. How long are you here?”
“I promised Lis we’d watch this cooking competition show on TV. Want to come over and watch it with us?”
“Can we make out the whole time and ignore the show?”
“No.” She laughs, the easy sound going a long way to soothing my earlier worries. I hate to admit it, but Nate wasn’t far off with his “mother hen” comment.
“Can we make out here before I have to let you go home?”
Heat blooms in her dark eyes, a nonverbal yes. “I’d like that.”
“Yeah, me too.” I offer a hand and help her up. When she’s standing in front of me, I cup her jaw and rest my lips on hers. One kiss and I’m already planning on taking her clothes off. A taste of her isn’t enough. It never has been. After I met her at the fundraiser, she rarely wasn’t on my mind.
My dinner forgotten, I walk her backward to the living room, my mouth sealed with hers. She doesn’t resist, fisting my shirt and stroking into my mouth with that talented tongue of hers.
“She’ll know if we have sex,” she says between kisses.
“So?” I lay her down on the living room sofa. Her butt hits the remote and the TV blinks on, some cop show rerun.
“Archer.” She sighs my name. I love that sound. I love the way she claws at my hair when I kiss her neck. I love—
I cut off the thought and start pulling off her clothes. Her mild protesting seems out of habit more than anything. I know she doesn’t mean it when she starts undressing me. Within minutes, she’s rolled over the mute button, and I’m settled between her legs to have an appetizer I’ve been dying for all week.
I part her with my thumbs and stroke her clit with the flat of my tongue. She tugs my hair and encourages me until words fail her entirely. Then there’s only moaning and writhing, and the honey-sweet taste of her on my tongue.
“Hurry,” comes her request after an orgasm shakes her luscious body. I obey, wanting to be inside her as badly as I wanted to taste her. Okay, worse.
When I slide home, she has her hands wrapped around my biceps and her hazel eyes glued to mine. I hold her with my gaze, taking her hard and fast. Her breaths are truncated and interspersed with high, tight noises making it impossible for me to hold back.
So I don’t.
When my mind goes blessedly blank, the tension from the week ebbing with my release, I finally relax. My rigid shoulders soften, and she notices, lightly scraping my back with her fingernails. Up, down. Up, down. I pull my face out of her hair, intending to say something akin to “I knew you wanted me,” but instead three words crowd my mouth.
Three words I’d be an idiot to say.
Three words I refuse to think.
And so, I think of three different words that aptly sum up my emotional state. Want to know what they are?
Fuck. I’m screwed.
