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“Normally.”
“But not with Claire.”
“Not with Claire,” I agree.
Wyatt considers me carefully, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “You really like her, eh?”
“You could say that.” Whatever it is I’m feeling for Claire is so totally different from anything I’ve ever felt that I don’t really know the words to describe it.
He stands, rapping his knuckles against my desk. “Well then. Guess you better nail her down, eh? Just don’t expect me to follow suit anytime soon, ’kay?” He runs a palm down his chest and strolls toward the door. “This man can’t be tamed.”
Nail her down is exactly what I need to do, which is why I shoot her a text later while I’m cooking dinner over my stove.
Me: Can you come up for a min? Need your signature on a doc for the patio.
Claire Bear: Seriously??
Me: Seriously. Don’t have time to stop by the brewery tomorrow. Please. It’ll be quick.
Claire Bear: How do I get up there? You can’t possibly expect me to walk up 21 flights of stairs. I’m supposed to be relaxing in a chair all day, or did you forget that you fucked me until you were satisfied that I wouldn’t be able to move properly for days?
As if I could ever forget that.
Me: I didn’t forget, noodle legs. Elevator code is 212871. Door’s open.
Me: Hurry up.
Claire Bear: Don’t tell me what to do.
Little does she know I’m going to spend all night telling her what to do, something along the lines of get on your knees, sit on my cock, and come for me, baby.
Five minutes later, I glance up from the stove when I hear the soft click of my door opening and closing. Sully springs to his feet and trots over to Claire as she drops to her knees for kisses and pets. When she stands up, I get a look at her outfit.
“Ready for bed?” I tease.
She looks up at me through slanted eyes, fists planted on her curvy hips. “I like to get comfy when I get home from work, and I wasn’t changing just for you, and certainly not for something that’s going to take me two minutes to do.”
“You don’t have to change for me. I love your outfit.” Love those skimpy excuse for pajama shorts, the oversize concert T-shirt hanging off her shoulder, giving me a glimpse of those golden freckles that dot her skin there.
She pads over to me in her bare feet, sticking her head around my arm. “Whatcha makin’?”
“Chicken cacciatore,” I tell her, pressing my lips to her silky hair.
She inhales deeply. “Smells delish.” She claps her hands. “Where are the papers?”
“Huh?”
“The document you needed me to sign right this minute,” she says impatiently. I can practically hear the word she wants to add to the end of that sentence: duh.
“Oh. Right.” That blatant lie. “I’ll get it later.”
“Later? But you said it would be qu—” She stops mid-sentence, gaze settling on my dining table, where two places have already been set, with a bottle of wine and a couple of candles. She shoves a finger into my chest. “This is an ambush!”
My eyes fall closed with a rumbling laugh. “You act like you’ve just been surrounded at gunpoint instead of surprised with a romantic, candlelit dinner.”
“What if I already ate dinner?”
I give her a look that says I call bullshit. “Judging by the entire box of Lucky Charms that was poking out of your bag today? I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that’s a lie.”
