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I knew kissing him would be good; I didn’t know how instantaneously addicting his lips would be.
Harley’s kisses grow more sensual and intoxicating by the second. So slow. So unhurried and unbothered by the world around us. Everything about the way he moves his mouth over mine reminds me he’s had more experience than me.
I’m caring less and less about that and focusing more on hoping Harley never stops kissing me.
“Keep kissing me like that, and I’ll never sell the house for you. Just keep bringing in more and more pretend contingencies.”
He laughs, and it warms me to my core. “Keep bugging me with demands, and I might buy the Hilltop House myself.”
“You should,” I murmur, assuming he’s joking.
I remember what the assistant manager at the bank said about Harley. I hate that I know about his loan application. His credit score is irrelevant to the person he is.
“Hey, you’ve got some ice cream on your neck,” Harley says, nudging my hair out of the way.
“You’re good at changing the subject,” I tease.
“Yes, I am. I don’t actually want to talk about work anymore.”
What a relief.
“And I highly doubt I have ice cream on my neck.”
Harley presses a soft kiss against my throat. “Who’s to say?” he murmurs against my skin, and I shiver.
“You’re a mess,” I tease.
“Nah, you’ve made a mess of yourself, and I have to clean you up,” he says, tongue-kissing my neck lower and lower until he’s right against the juncture of my shoulder and neck. My collarbone is a breath away from being kissed, and I know if I feel his lips there, it might send me over the edge.
I haven’t spilled a drop other than that initial spot on my hand, and I suppose this is the precursor to foreplay. It feels that way, judging by my body’s reaction. I’m strangely aware of my breasts, the way they feel heavier, pushing against the heavy cardigan. The wool of my skirt feels itchy. My pearls are choking me. Why do I dress like such a grandmother?
“Baby, look,” he says, sliding his hand around my waist. A passing nanny pushing a stroller gives us a pinched, judgy look, but I can’t summon the strength to care that Harley and I are making a spectacle. “You’ve got ice cream all over your chest.”
Harley works his mouth over the base of my throat, and I have no choice but to angle my head back.
I do everything to make myself appear professional and devoid of sexual magnetism, and here I am being manhandled like a harlot…and loving it.
My nipples pucker inside my bra. I feel for the first time the need to touch them, feel their shape and weight. The need forhimto do those things.
People are staring. But then I forget all about them when I close my eyes, and Harley kisses my mouth again. I only feel, smell, and taste Harley. He tastes like cinnamon and caramel and smells like wood varnish and the outdoors.
“If I’ve spilled everywhere, then I’d better go home and change,” I say, going along with his pretending. God, that’s the truth, though. I’ve spilled plenty, but it’s not ice cream, and it’s not on my sweater. My pussy is leaking all over my underwear.
Harley hums against my lips, further driving me into an oblivion of heat and need and craving.
“Can I help?” Harley asks.
“Harley,” I whisper. “Is this paint-drying slow?”
Sensing my hesitation, he pulls away, then turns my hand over in his. When he runs his fingertips over my palm, I nearly explode. “Okay, sweet pea. I should let you get back to work.”
Sweet pea? I hate nicknames, but his words remind me of the little purple flower that grows outside my condo.
Did he notice those? Has he driven by my house?
I bite my lip and think for a moment. Should I do what I’m about to do?
“Right. Work,” I say.
