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Big Ben stands a little straighter, but my slow nod hangs a Uey and becomes a shake. “I mean, theoretically.”
“Mmm.”
What the fuck does that soft hum mean, and why am I remembering the time I heard it when her lips were wrapped around my dick?
Okay, this is not what I was planning back here.
“Lara.” I lift my hands to signal we should slow down here, but then she does the one thing I don’t have a chance in hell of resisting.
She tucks her fingers around the bottom of her shirt and lifts it the barest inch. Just enough for me to see a ribbon of smooth pale skin. Her thumb hooks into the top of her jeans, and my heart stops.
“So, you want to see my panties?”
Fuck. Big Ben nods, throwing his shoulders back, all “Hold my beer,” but I’ve got to think this through.
“I can’t lie to you. I want to see them so fucking bad it’s killing me to keep my feet planted where they are and not drop to my knees and peel those jeans down your perfect fucking hips right this second.”
Her brow lifts, and my body reads it like one of those guys on the tarmac waving a pilot in. I can fucking see it in my mind, each bit of skin being revealed an inch at a time. The silk of some scantily cut lingerie, smooth and tight, damp between her legs?—
“Ben.” She’s laughing, and I snap out of it, patting the air between us, all settle, settle.
But it’s more for me than for her.
There’s no way we’re actually considering this.
I mean, yeah, my thoughts were buried securely in her panties a few minutes ago, but my head goes to a lot of places it doesn’t belong. Especially around her. And then when she didn’t put the ix-nay on my irty-day musings the way I expected her to… Big Ben started reaching for the wheel.
I’m tempted to swat his big ass away. This is Lara.
But instead of backing off, I take a step closer, because?—
This. Is. Lara.
“I don’t want to fuck this up. What I was saying, I didn’t mean it as a suggestion. I wasn’t trying to actually get into your pretty… pink panties?” I guess, because, damn, I really want to know. “So much as trying to give us a chance to think more rationally about what might have been fueling some unrealistic memories.”
A single finger taps at the denim no longer making a descent. Tap, tap, tap.
She’s giving me her speculative stare. The one where she’s working out risk and reward.
I don’t know what it is about that look, but from as far back as I can remember, it’s been my kryptonite. Her big brain fascinates me, and any time I get to see it at work, I can barely look away.
Then— “I get where you’re coming from. Verbal acknowledgment is a good start. But… since it’s not like we’d be crossing some line we’ve never crossed before… wouldn’t it be more effective to just give in? See firsthand the experience isn’t quite everything we remembered?”
Here’s the thing. I know I’m a reasonably smart guy. Top scores in advanced math aside, I wouldn’t have gotten where I am in my career if I wasn’t. But I can also be rash and impulsive, so a lot of my great ideas need a warning label slapped on them.
But Lara’s not rash. She’s not impulsive. And her ideas slay.
Which means, if I like her idea… and she likes her idea… it must be a pretty solid idea.
Either that or Big Ben has stealthily slipped into the driver’s seat without me realizing I’ve handed over the keys.
Lara must not dig the hesitation, because her stance shifts, and she chuckles darkly. “I mean, think what an utter relief it will be once we’ve done it and it’s… bad.”
I blink, switches in my brain flipping before I fully register the bullshit she just dropped. On purpose. Because she one hundred percent has my number.
“Fuck that, Lara.” And then I’m all intent and forward motion, brushing her hands away as I back her up.
Her eyes flare as she lets out a sexy gasp, lips parted on a smile that says she knew exactly what she was doing.
