Chapter 9 Wedding Crashers 2.0 #2
“You trust me when you panic. That’s interesting.”
I blink up at him. He's close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough that I can smell him—some heady mix of dark wood and expensive soap.
"I shouldn’t have done that,” I say suddenly. “I should have called tech support. That was probably—"
"I'm glad you called." He sets down his glass, moves closer. "I mean, I want to know if there are issues. With the system. For quality control."
"Quality control." I'm very aware of how close he's standing. "Right."
"And I was in the area."
"In Alder Ridge? At nine PM?"
"Greater Seattle area." He's definitely closer now. "It's all relative."
He looks softer like this. Still sharp-edged, but slightly undone.
And it only makes me want to unravel him more.
I cough lightly, fingers tightening around the stem of my wine glass.
“So,” I say, voice just above a whisper, “is this a usual part of the Sterling Security experience? Surprise wine nights with frantic innkeepers?”
“No.” His smile is slow. Private. “You’re a first.”
Something in my chest stutters.
I take another sip. A large one. And then, like fate has been eavesdropping, I feel it.
A slip of fingers. The curve of the glass too eager in my grip.
And then—
“Shit!”
Wine sloshes up and over the rim, splashing directly onto his pristine white shirt, spreading like scandal across the expensive cotton.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—”
He looks down at the deep red stain blooming over his chest. “I’ve taken bullet fragments with less drama.”
I grab a towel and step closer, blotting uselessly at the fabric. “Here, let me—”
My hand brushes the firm plane of his chest, and we both go still.
The towel falls between us.
My breath catches.
His chest rises slowly, eyes darkening behind his glasses as he looks at me.
The air shifts. Solidifies.
And I’m not sure who moves first.
Maybe both of us.
Maybe neither.
But then his mouth is on mine, and everything else disappears.
Because when Luke Sterling leans forward and captures my lips in a kiss, I know that nothing—not a single touch I’ve felt before this—can compare.
The man kisses like he negotiates.
Decisive. Focused. Completely in control.
His hands find my waist and pull me flush against him, and I melt into the heat of him, his strength, his calm.
My back hits the counter with a soft thud, and he crowds in, his mouth demanding now—rougher, deeper, his tongue sweeping against mine like he needs to consume the tension we’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
“Luke,” I gasp when he moves to my neck, biting lightly just beneath my jaw.
My hips arch into him, and he groans—actually groans.
If there was any debate about whether Luke Sterling was human or not, that sound alone has put the argument to bed.
And speaking of “putting things to bed”…
My body sure as hell seems intent on doing just that to the CEO kissing me senseless right now.
My hands curl into his soaked shirtfront, tugging him close enough to skim my breasts. I’m kissing him like he’s the air I need to breathe.
And when he lifts me onto the counter as if I weigh nothing, I actually sigh.
The sigh deepens as he steps between the valley of my legs, inserting his big body between my thighs.
His palms—just as large as the rest of him—skim up under my shirt, stroking the bare skin underneath, and for the first time, I notice everything carnal beneath Mr. Robot Billionaire’s cool surface.
This is a different side of the cybersecurity CEO.
And it’s messy. Chaotic. Disordered.
And so freaking hot I could combust right on the spot.
All at once, I realize that whatever’s happening inside this kitchen isn’t about restraint anymore.
Not even a little bit.
It’s about the way Luke’s hips press into mine like he’s already halfway inside me.
It’s about the way his fingers grip my thighs, like he’s barely holding himself back.
It’s about the heat. The hunger. The fact that I know that he knows this is a mistake and he can’t bring himself to care.
Neither can I.
We break apart only when I gasp too hard to keep going, and even then, he doesn’t move far. His forehead presses against mine, and his breath ghosts across my lips.
I can tell. Tell that he wants to say something, to say anything that will—
CRASH!
The sound of something breaking from the dining room shatters the moment into a thousand pieces that not even arousal can pull together again.
Luke frowns. “What was—"
"Buttercup," I exhale hard. "She probably found something expensive to eat."
We stare at each other in the moonlit kitchen.
His shirt is untucked. My hair is a disaster.
And neither of us is alright.
Each breath we share feels charged with the kind of electricity that could power all of freaking Seattle.
At last, his winter-blue eyes lower. “Shit. I should g—“
"You should go," I agree.
Neither of us moves.
"This was definitely—“
"A mistake," I finish, chin lifting as I stare into his eyes. "Absolutely. The kissing. And the... other parts."
"The other parts," he repeats, his voice rough.
"Very unprofessional."
"Extremely."
Another crash from the dining room, followed by a triumphant bleat.
"I should really—"
"Check on that. Yes." He steps back, adjusting his glasses, smoothing his shirt. "I'll see myself out."
"Luke?"
He pauses at the doorway.
"Thank you. For coming. For fixing the system. For..."
"For the quality control?" His smile is wry.
"Exactly."
He leaves, and I slump against the counter, my lips still tingling, my skin still humming from his touch.
From the dining room, Buttercup bleats what sounds distinctly like judgment.
"Don't start," I tell her, heading to assess the damage. "We're pretending that didn't happen."
But as I find her standing in the remains of what used to be a flower arrangement, looking deeply unrepentant, I can still taste wine and Luke on my lips.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Because the inn is saved. For now, at least.
Because the bookings are coming in.
And because I definitely didn't just complicate everything by putting my tongue in my business partner's mouth.
Buttercup fixes me with a stare that says she's not buying it.
Neither am I.