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I respond with another kiss. This one is more aggressive, more true to the overwhelming desire that is coursing through my veins.
She pushes against me, her hands wandering down my jacket toward my jeans. She stops short, smoothing a hand over the front of my T-shirt.
I sense her hesitation. I want to push for more, but this is Sinclair.
Regardless of how badly I’ve fucked up with her, I’ll never push her for anything she’s not ready for.
“Wait.”
Hearing that from her stalls me in place with my lips resting against hers. I open my eyes to find hers burning into me. This woman has always been able to see into my soul.
“Are we going to do this, Jameson?”
Trying to find words feels like a hell of a hard task, so I nod.
Her eyebrows jump. “Make love?”
I need to check if I just came in my jeans because fuck me, am I dreaming right now? If I fell asleep on the flight back from Boston, I sure as hell don’t want to ever wake up.
“I want you,” I manage to say before I kiss her softly.
Her eyes latch on mine. “Jameson.”
“Now,” I state without the hint of a question in my tone.
I’ll rip her clothes off right here and take her on this table or the couch. I’ll fuck her on the floor if she wants that.
“Now?” She sucks in a deep breath.
I reach down to her waist, motioning for her to haul herself up on me.
She does just that, wrapping her legs around me.
“My bed,” I whisper. “Now, Sinclair.”
I feel the tremor in her body, but the way she’s grinding against me chases away any doubt that she wants this as much as I do.
I step forward as she clings to me. My arms are wrapped around her, and my heart is at her mercy.
I move toward my bedroom, but before I realize what’s happening, she’s out of my arms with her feet back on the floor.
“What?” I ask in disbelief. “What the hell is happen…”
Her hand waves in the air toward the door. “Someone knocked.”
I’d tell her she’s hearing things, but at that exact second, I hear it too. There’s a soft knock at the door.
“That’s the second time they knocked, Jameson.”
I stare at her face before my gaze drops to the front of her T-shirt. She’s braless, and it’s taken every ounce of strength I have not to drop my mouth to a hardened nipple to suck it through the fabric.
“Ignore the knocking,” I grit out through clenched teeth. “I’m taking you to bed.”
Whoever is on the other side of the door decides to up the ante by knocking louder. It’s a series of at least six or seven knocks.
Sinclair’s hands drop to her waist. “You should get it. It may be important.”
“It’s no one,” I try to convince her.
She gives her head a slight shake. “Answer the door, Jameson. I can’t.”
I cock a brow because I know why she can’t answer. I drop my gaze to her breasts again, and the visible outline of her perked nipples. “This isn’t over, Sin.”
She nods, but that’s it.
I set off toward the door because the person on the other side is now pounding a fist against the wood.
With frustration gnawing at me, I swing it open.
My gaze drops down to the face of Sinclair’s niece. I look past her toward the elevator. “Stevie? What are you doing here?”
She gives me a once over. “Are you okay, Jameson? Your cheeks are kind of red, and your lips look…”
“Sure.” I let out a chuckle. “I’m fine.”
“Stevie?” Sinclair edges around me. “How did you get here? Where’s your dad? Is your mom with you?”
She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “My dad is helping your neighbor get to his apartment. Mr. Wigsandbuttons.”
“Mr. Wingerbotten,” Sinclair gently corrects her.
The man who owns the only other penthouse on this floor is nearing ninety, but he’s still got a spring in his step. He has a penchant for picking up things on his way home from dinner at his favorite restaurant. He calls them antiques, but they’re treasures he finds in the trash.
I’ve helped him twice since I moved in. Once, it was to carry a zebra shaped lamp into his apartment. The second time he had found a large leather cushion that he wanted to rest his feet on while he watches the news each night.
I was happy to help out.
“What did Mr. Wingerbotten bring home tonight?” I ask Stevie.
Her face beams with a smile. “The coolest owl statue. It was almost as tall as me.”
Sinclair laughs. “That does sound cool.”
“I like owls now,” Stevie states. “I’m going to paint one when I get home.”
I glance at my watch as Sinclair asks the obvious question. “It’s kind of late for a visit, isn’t it, Stevie?”
“It is,” Berk calls out as he comes into view down the corridor that leads to Wingerbotten’s penthouse. “Stevie couldn’t wait to deliver something to both of you.”
