Chapter 33 My Shirt, Her Legs, No Productivity
MY SHIRT, HER LEGS, NO PRODUCTIVITY
DALLAS
Sunlight flooded the kitchen, warming the granite and catching the steel, but I wasn't looking at any of that. I was looking at her sitting across from me in my t-shirt, legs bare, no pants, no bra, not a single damn thing underneath as far as I could tell.
Davina had her laptop open, a half-eaten croissant forgotten beside her coffee cup, and that little crease between her eyebrows. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, loose strands escaping to frame her face. No makeup. Bare legs tucked under her on the barstool.
She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me?” She didn’t look up.
“Yes. It’s my favorite thing to do.”
Her lips twitched, but she kept her eyes on the screen. “Some of us have to work. Stop being distracting.”
“I'm literally just sitting here eating eggs.”
“You're sitting there looking like that.” She finally glanced up, her gaze traveling from my face down to my chest. I'd forgotten a shirt because I was at home, and also because I'd noticed she had trouble concentrating when I was shirtless, which was entertaining. “It's inconsiderate.”
“Should I put on a parka? Full hazmat suit?”
“That would help, yes.”
Ricky chose that moment to waddle into the kitchen. He sat at Davina's feet and stared up at her. “No begging,” she told him.
He kept staring.
“I mean it.”
His tail wagged hopefully.
“You're not getting my croissant.”
He whined, a single, pitiful note that contained approximately seven thousand years of canine suffering.
“Fine.” She tore off a piece and dropped it into his waiting mouth. “But this is a one-time thing.”
“You say that every morning, too,” I observed.
“Shut up.”
Ricky, emboldened by his victory, attempted to rest his front paws on her thigh, clearly angling for round two. She scratched behind his ears but held firm on the no-more-croissant policy. He accepted defeat.
“Okay.” Davina set the croissant aside, apparently accepting that productivity required her full attention. She reached for her coffee instead, cradling the mug in both hands. “We need to talk about schedules.”
“Schedules.” I nodded sagely. “My favorite topic. Right up there with tax law and the history of concrete.”
“Dallas.”
“I'm listening. I'm just also being hilarious.”
She kicked me under the counter, and I caught her foot and held it, my thumb pressing into her arch in a way that made her breath catch.
“That's cheating,” she said.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You're trying to distract me with foot rubs.”
“Is it working?”
“...Maybe.”
I grinned but released her foot, because we did need to have this conversation, and I was already having trouble concentrating on anything other than the way that t-shirt kept slipping off her shoulder.
“Paris,” I said. “Only a few months away. Your first international show.”
The crease returned, but different now, nerves twisted with excitement.
“Everything is coming together perfectly. The venue's incredible. I know it’s still over five months away, but I finished our schedule.” She turned the laptop toward me.
The calendar looked like a military operation.
“I fly out Tuesday from Tampa, and the show is Friday evening. You'll fly in on Wednesday morning from Ireland, but you won’t be able to stay for the show. Sam said you have an interview that can’t be rescheduled. ”
I'd known this was coming. “I'll be there Friday for your show. I’ll catch a red-eye back early Saturday morning and make it back in plenty of time for the interview.”
“You'll be exhausted.”
I shrugged. “I'll manage.”
“Dallas…”
“I'm not missing your show.” The words came out harder than I'd intended. “I'll figure out the rest.”
“You'll be running on nothing.”
“A small price to pay for watching my wife take over the fashion world.”
Her cheeks flushed pink; she still wasn't used to me calling her that, which only made me want to say it more. “You don't have to make it sound so dramatic.”
“Davidson, you're debuting a plus-size collection in Paris. The fashion capital of the world.” I leaned forward, holding her gaze. “That's not dramatic. That's revolutionary.”
She was quiet for a moment, processing. “When you say things like that, I forget why I spent two years hating you.”
“Because I was an arrogant man-child. Still am. You've just built up a tolerance.”
“Like immunity to poison.”
“A very attractive poison.”
She laughed.
“Brooke and Matt are good with Ricky?”
“Matt's already promised him bacon every morning. He's going to come home with expectations we can't meet.”
“After Paris, I have to come back to Florida.
The podcast has a fan meet-and-greet that Sunday, and Brooke and I have a guest interview we've been planning for months. So I'll handle that, and then...” She looked up, her gaze meeting mine. “Then Sunday evening, I’ll catch a flight to Ireland. To you.” She was talking faster now.
“I talked to Marcus, and he can handle everything here. Brooke and I can record from anywhere with decent Wi-Fi, and I thought I could work from there. Be with you. Instead of us being apart for three weeks.”
“You'd do that?”
“It's not ideal. I'll have calls at weird hours, and I might be distracted when you're trying to work…”
“Davina.”
“...and I know you'll be busy filming, so I don't expect you to entertain me, I just thought…”
“Davina.”
She stopped.
“Come to Ireland. Work from there. Take calls at weird hours. I don't care.” I stood and rounded the table. “Having you there would be everything.”
“You're sure? I won't be in the way?”
“You could never be in the way.” I turned her stool to face me, my hands on her thighs. “The thought of three weeks on the other side of the ocean has been keeping me up. And you've found a way to be there?”
“Most of it. I'll miss the first week, but…”
My lips captured hers as my hands slid into her hair, and I pressed my body between her thighs.
She made a small sound, and her fingers dug into my shoulders.
The laptop became meaningless. The only thing that mattered was the way she opened for me and the small gasps she made when I finally pulled back.
My hands traced down her neck, over cotton, settling on her hips. I could feel the heat of her through the fabric of my shirt.
“You have no idea,” I said against her lips. “What you do to me.”
A slow smile curved her mouth. Her eyes dropped. “Then show me.”
I lifted her off the stool. She let out a surprised sound that became a low laugh as I set her on the granite counter. The croissant tumbled to the floor. Ricky saw his chance, snatched his prize, and trotted out with a satisfied grunt.
I stepped between her legs. Her knees squeezed my hips. I watched the pulse flutter at the base of her throat and traced it with my thumb.
“I love you,” I said, my heart pounding, praying she loved me too. Praying that this was real.
Her smile softened. “I love you too.”
Then her gaze dropped to where I strained against denim. Her tongue touched her lower lip.
“Let me,” she whispered, her hands already at my belt.
The buckle. The button. The zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen. She freed me, and her eyes went dark.
Her hand wrapped around me, firm and knowing, one long stroke that made my head fall back.
Then she was sliding down, bare feet on tile, looking up at me with that messy hair and my shirt pooling around her.
She didn't tease. Her breath ghosted over me, and then her mouth.
Warm. Wet. Perfect.
A shudder ran through me. Her tongue circled, her cheeks hollowed. One hand worked the base while the other gripped my hip, possessive. I tangled my fingers in her hair, not guiding, just holding on. Feeling the motion. The slide.
My hips gave a small thrust, and she took it, took me deeper, a muffled sound of pleasure that vibrated through my entire body.
Close. Dangerously close.
But I wanted more.
I pulled back. She made a soft, disappointed sound, lips swollen and wet.
“Not yet,” I managed.
I hauled her up, gripped the hem of the shirt, and pulled it over her head, and then slid her panties down her legs. She stood in the morning sun, bare and flushed, and the breath left my lungs.
I lifted her back onto the counter. She gasped at the cold granite, her legs wrapping around me, pulling me into her heat.
I buried my face in her neck, breathing her in, coffee, sleep, her.
My mouth traced down her throat, her collarbone, until I took one peaked nipple between my lips.
She cried out, arching into me, pressing herself harder against my tongue.
I sucked, grazed with my teeth, while my hand found her other breast.
She writhed beneath me. “Dallas... please...”
I kissed lower. Over her stomach. I hooked my hands under her knees and pushed her legs wider.
She was drenched.
I lowered my mouth.
The first stroke made her jolt. A sharp cry tore from her.
I held her hips down and let myself taste her in long, slow licks, circling her clit before drawing it into my mouth.
Her thighs trembled against my ears. Her hands fisted in my hair, holding me closer, grinding against me.
Her moans filled the kitchen, unfiltered.
“I'm close,” she panted.
I slid two fingers inside her. Curled them. Found the spot that made her scream. Worked them in rhythm while my mouth never left her.
She shattered. Her body bowed off the counter, a raw sound ripping from her throat. She clenched around my fingers, waves crashing through her. I didn't stop, drawing it out until she went limp against the stone.
I rose, positioned, and buried myself in her with one thrust.
Her eyes flew open. A choked gasp.
I held still, feeling her, watching the aftershocks ripple through. Then I withdrew and drove back in. Her nails scraped down my back.
She met every thrust, her hips rising to mine, her legs pulling me deeper. The sound of skin against skin mixed with our ragged breaths.
Her eyes, heavy-lidded, found mine.
“This is what you do to me.”
I could feel her building again, her walls beginning to flutter. Her breath hitched.
I reached between us, found her clit, and pressed down.
She exploded. Her body clamped around me, and it pulled my own release from somewhere deep, a wave that crashed through me, blinding. I drove into her one final time, my voice joining hers as I emptied myself, shuddering.
I collapsed over her, forehead against hers on the cool counter. Our breaths mingled. Her hands stroked my back, gentle now.
After a long moment, I pushed up to look at her. Wild hair. Flushed skin. A satisfied smile spread across her face.
“Still want to talk about schedules?” I murmured against her mouth.
She pushed up onto her elbows and looked at me for a long moment. “Schedules later.”
“Schedules later,” I agreed.
She pulled me back down, her cheek finding the curve of my shoulder, and I pressed my lips to her hair.
Everything else could wait.