Chapter 12 #3
Exhaling slowly, she extended one leg in front of her. Flexed her sneakered foot. Pointed her toes. Switched legs. “It’s lavender
honey, by the way.”
Seemed they were done talking about her house and her ex. Changing gears took him a minute, though. Especially since he kept
eyeing her long, thick thighs and wondering how they’d feel as a necklace.
“You saw the damn jar,” he finally managed to reply. “Cheating.”
“I figured it out before I looked at the label. I promise.” She held up her left hand, as if swearing an oath. “Your hints
were just that good, Dean. As soon as you mentioned France, I knew.”
Clearly, he’d nailed that communication crap.
If he were a rooster? He’d be strutting around the barnyard, feathered chest puffed out in pride, crowing loudly enough to
deafen all other nearby cocks.
“Teamwork,” he told her, relieved as hell this plan hadn’t gone to shit, unlike the stupid escape room. “Progress.”
She snorted. “Verbs. Missing.”
“Quit busting my chops, Dearborn,” he complained with zero sincerity.
“I would, if it weren’t such fun.” As he began working on her thumb, her smile lingered. “Listen, I have an idea for our next activity.”
When she didn’t elaborate, he looked up. Met her eyes.
They were the fiery blue of an oven’s pilot light. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t move. Her scrutiny, blatant and hot, surveyed
him top to Croc, lingering on his shoulders, his chest, his own thighs. Her pink tongue darted out and wet her lips.
His throat promptly went dry as overbaked scones.
“I was thinking . . .” Her mouth glistened, and the sight of it was a taunt. “May I touch you?”
His thoughts had gone real goddamn fuzzy. All he could do was nod, then nod again for no good reason, as all his mental warning
sirens abruptly went silent.
Her legs stretched out, hooked the backs of his knees, and hauled him closer, until his half-hard dick pressed against the
heat-soaked seam of her jeans. Both of them exhaled harshly at the contact, and her lids went half-lidded, but she didn’t
blink. Didn’t release him from that tractor-beam gaze.
If he kissed her, she’d taste like honey, rich and melting and subtly floral. Sticky on her lips, sweet on her tongue. Sweet
on his tongue too, as he sucked the tip of hers.
He gripped her hand for dear life. Because if he let go, he’d seize her by the hips. Hold her in place and grind his erection
against her until they both came.
The constriction of his jeans, the friction against hers, the soft give of her inner thighs—they were agonizing. He wanted
to plant his feet and rut.
“I suggest a staring contest.” Her velvety voice stroked over him, and if his cock had gone stone-hard, his knees suddenly had the structural integrity of an underbaked meringue. “Sixty seconds without blinking, close up. I’ve heard that’s a really effective trust-building exercise.”
He shook his head, trying to clear it. Because, yeah, his article in Corporations Today had listed a staring contest, but . . . weren’t they kind of doing that shit already? Even if someone offered him the amount
of money her house was worth to look away from her, he couldn’t do it. Not for a single second. Not right now.
When she shifted on the stool, his dick rubbed against the scorching inner seam of her jeans. He stifled his own groan, but
a little noise escaped her throat, and her cheeks flushed.
Yeah, he was stroking in just the right place. Friction through the fabric, cock against clit, just as he’d suspected.
Those blue, blue eyes burned hotter than his butane torch. Hot enough to char his damn bones where he stood.
Off-balance in every possible way, he dropped her hand and braced his palms on either side of her, gripping the table hard
enough that his fingers ached and the stainless steel should’ve bent under the pressure. Tried his best not to move. Tried
not to roll his hips, grind hard, and find out just how much they could do through two layers of denim.
His guess? A whole lot. Even more if they stripped off those jeans.
And if he didn’t wrench himself away, right now, he’d also find out how much disinfectant he’d need after taking Molly right
here on his worktable.
He wanted her so goddamn much. But . . . he needed more. Needed everything.
“Motherfucker,” he ground out.
With effort, he broke eye contact. Broke the loose hold of her legs and stepped way the hell back. Kept retreating until he hit the cool cinder-block wall beside his sink. Ignored the temptation of her seemingly involuntary sway toward him and her small sound of protest.
“You . . .” He ripped a hand through his hair, every nerve howling in agitation and thwarted horniness. “You know how a real
staring contest would end, Molly.”
She subtly pressed her thighs together, then blew out a shaky breath. “With us sleeping together, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
Another fifteen seconds of that up-close eye-fucking and cock-to-clit contact? He’d jump her, if she didn’t jump him first.
Even though he’d planned to wait until he was certain she trusted him, was certain she wouldn’t leave his ass behind yet again.
She shrugged. “I know.”
Her voice was cool and calm as a breezeless lake. If he hadn’t nearly incinerated himself in the heat between her thighs,
couldn’t see her fingers trembling as she laced them neatly in her lap, he’d be completely convinced. Think she was unaffected.
Great acting. Not good enough to fool him anymore, though.
In another infinitesimal movement, she squirmed a bit on that stool. Shifted her legs, even as her cheeks continued to burn.
He watched. Considered.
He couldn’t have her yet. Didn’t matter how much he wanted to.
But if she needed to take the edge off? Could use a demonstration of what he could do for her, do to her, if given the chance?
Well . . .
In that case, he was at her service. Which he’d be happy to show her.
Right goddamn now.