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But all I can think about is this woman in front of me. The one I’ve been fantasizing about since I felt her thighs against my cheeks.
The one who’s telling me she liked it when I did it.
Her cheeks are flaming. I can tell she’s embarrassed at admitting it. And I don’t want her to be embarrassed. I want her to say it again.
“Ignore that,” she says instead. “I’m tired and I’m feeling old and rejected and—”
“You’re not old,” I say, because it’s a scientific fact.
That earns me a smile.
“And he didn’t reject you,” I point out. “He’s an asshole. A predator who thinks the world owes him everything he wants.” I’ve met a few of those myself. My voice softens as I take in her bright red cheeks.
So I put myself out there. “For what it’s worth, I liked it too. You smelled amazing.”
Her voice lifts an octave. “That’s not true. Guys hate the way women smell.”
Where the hell has she been getting this information? “No, they don’t.”
Two adorable lines form between her brows. “Yeah, they do. There’s a reason why guys won’t go down on a woman unless she’s freshly showered.”
My eyes narrow. I’m torn between amusement because she looks so serious about this and annoyance because honestly, she has a terrible guy radar. Why does she find it so hard to believe the lies but not the truth? “You’ve been talking to the wrong guys. A real man wants to smell the real you. Not the sanitized version.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for hygiene. And upkeep. As long as it applies to both sides.
And I’ve been thinking about how good she smelled for weeks. And it has nothing to do with her damn shower gel.
She’s still looking at me like she doesn’t believe me. And I hate being called a liar. An asshole, okay. Moody bastard. Fine.
Liar? No way.
“There’s nothing dirty about smelling like a woman,” I tell her. My voice is lower now. Thicker. “It’s every man’s fucking fantasy.”
You’reevery man’s fantasy. That’s what I want to say. But I don’t. Because this push pull thing is making me be careful. I’m not going to overstep any marks or go where she doesn’t want to lead me.
She opens her lips then closes them again. I get a flashback to how soft they were when we kissed.
Then she shivers. And no wonder. She’s wearing that red dress with nothing on her arms and we’re standing in an ice rink with an ambient temperature of around forty degrees Fahrenheit.
“Come here,” I say, holding out my arms. I expect her to shake her head and remind me that we’re colleagues and that isn’t happening.
Or even better, to remind me that I promised her nothing would happen between us again.
But she doesn’t. She steps forward, her teeth chattering as her face rests against my chest. I wrap my arms around her until the shuddering stops
“I’m kind of sweaty,” I tell her as she relaxes into me.
“Every woman’s fantasy,” she says, her voice muffled by my chest.
I laugh, and she laughs too, tipping her head until her eyes lock with mine. My heart is hammering against my chest. I’m reminded of that familiarity again. Why do I recognize those eyes? It feels like the answer is at the edge of my consciousness.
It’s annoying me.
The atmosphere between us has twisted again. Yes, I’m still sporting a semi-hard-on but this is softer. More like comfort. More like friends.
I like that, too.
“Tech bros are assholes,” she says. I grin because yeah, I’ve met a few who’ve wanted investment or endorsement and that’s the feeling I got, too.
“They are,” I agree. “And when you get home, I want you to let your friend know, so they kick him off the app.”
