Chapter 20 Only Almost
ONLY ALMOST
SKYLAR
The man at my door doesn’t look like the one who stood across from me in the yard the other night. He doesn’t look like the guy who walked down the steps this morning with that easy swagger either. No, this version of Ford is the man from the day I met him—intense, tightly wound, ready to spring.
I can practically smell the frustration rolling off him like cologne. But it’s a good cologne—virile, powerful, full of the quiet intensity you want on the ice when the game’s down to the final minute.
He lifts a hand and rests it on the doorframe like he’s trying to seem casual, but it doesn’t work. He’s gripping it. Hard.
I part my lips, unsure what to say or why he’s here. I’m not used to someone showing up like this. In this state of…need. Simon’s not either. Maybe that’s why my dog hasn’t even gotten up from his late-afternoon nap. He’s upstairs in a dog-sized sleigh bed that’s far too comfortable.
Ford’s mere feet away, and he beats me to it, speaking first. “Your shirt’s off.”
I blink. “What?”
He jerks his chin at me, scowling. “The buttons. They’re off. I saw you buttoning it.”
I gaze down at my navy-blue blouse with tiny flowers on it. “It’s not—”
Oh. It is.
“It’s askew,” he cuts in.
“So you came over here to help me button my shirt?”
“If you want help,” he mutters.
I don’t need it, but the thought burns me up from the inside. I’m so thrown off, I don’t know what to say.
His frame blocks me from a view of the street.
His eyes burn into mine. I reach down and start unbuttoning the shirt, one by one, my fingers skating across my heated skin, redoing each button as I go, methodically, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to fix my shirt in front of my neighbor.
Ford doesn’t stop watching. And I don’t want him to.
When I finish, I glance back up at him, my heart racing wildly. “You saw me from the yard?”
“I did,” he says—fearless, unashamed.
The thought of him watching me is…outrageously thrilling. A pulse beats between my thighs.
“You’re helpful,” I say in a heated whisper.
“Trying to be,” he says, then licks his lips. “The fake date,” he adds, like the words are heavy in his mouth.
“Which one?” I ask, carefully. I’m desperately hoping he’s not about to back out.
Either one, both of them, they feel like…parties I get to go to. Like it’s Halloween, and I get to dress up in the best way. I like these costume parties. I don’t want them to end.
He nods tightly. “Both. But mostly the gala. Are you good with it?”
“I said I was,” I answer, confused.
“I wanted to make sure.”
“I’m sure,” I add.
He stares at me, his blue eyes flickering with flames. He lowers his arm from the door, but his muscles are still tense, his forearms flexing. He’s no more relaxed than when he banged on the door. He glances past me, toward the inside of my house. It hits me then—he’s never actually been in here.
“Can I come in?” he asks, a new urgency in his voice. “Or are you going to be late?”
“I have ten minutes before I have to go.”
“To catch the bus?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll drive you.” It comes out like a command.
“I still only have fifteen minutes.”
“That’s fine.” The click of the door shutting activates guard-dog mode. Simon barks, then hustles his little wiggling body down the stairs. He rushes over immediately, whimpering and circling Ford like they’ve known each other for years.
I think of Landon. Of the times he ignored Simon. Of the other guys I dated who didn’t care, didn’t even ask to see a photo on our first dates. But Ford? He crouches down and strokes Simon’s long, soft ears with this gentle reverence that melts my heart.
“Hey there,” he murmurs. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? A very good boy, helping your mom with the bills.”
My brain short-circuits.
He called me Mom. A dog mom, sure, but still—I love it too much. The stupid, silly designation that we dog lovers use is doing unfair things to my insides.
Once Simon trots off to his living room bed—shaped like a cupcake—Ford rises slowly, his gaze locking with mine. “If we’re going to fake date,” he says, “we should probably…” His eyes drift to my mouth.
I feel it. The shift in the air. The way every nerve in my body goes on high alert. The pull.
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence.
But he does.
“Fake kiss.”
And all I can think is yes, please, and now.
“Don’t make it fake,” I say.
Ford lifts a hand, reaches for my face, and cups my cheek. He strokes his thumb along my jawline, and I gasp—a staggered breath that gives away every ounce of my unchecked lust.
His dimple flashes, but it disappears quickly as he studies my face like he’s memorizing me.
He’s focused, deliberate, every slow, tantalizing sweep of his thumb drawing me closer to the edge. Then he coasts it down to my chin. Holds me in place.
“Your lips…drive me fucking wild,” he rasps.
I part them. For him.
And he shows me exactly how wild when he covers my mouth with his and kisses me fiercely.
His lips claim mine in some kind of proof of his statement. It’s hard, hot, and full of tension. There’s no prelude. No testing brush of lips. We’ve gone from zero to sixty in less than three seconds. I’d better buckle up since we’re hurtling along this racetrack of a kiss.
And it’s a thrilling ride.
He grips my jaw tighter, threads his other hand into my hair, and jerks me closer, tugging my chest against his, yanking my body flush to his.
So it’s that type of kiss. Ford Devon kisses with his entire body. He dives straight in with a hot, deep kiss and a full-on grind, and I am here for it.
For the hard ridge of him, insistent against my waist.
For the spark in my chest.
For the sizzle across my skin.
His tongue tangles with mine, and his sounds do too—his hungry, greedy groans. They match my whimpers and sighs.
And right when everything feels like we’re on a collision course for the bedroom, he taps the brakes.
Slows down.
Runs his thumb along my cheekbone as he coasts his lips across mine. A sensual slide of his mouth now, a downshift into a different rhythm.
The change makes me hotter.
My mind blurs.
My body turns molten.
And Ford feels like…an inevitability as he spins me around, pressing my back against the door, then kissing the corner of my lips.
A prolonged sigh falls from his mouth. “Better,” he rasps out.
“Better?”
“You taste better than I’d imagined,” he murmurs, then groans, pressing another soft kiss to my lips. “But I’d better test that theory.”
Excitement flares through my body. How he wants to test it, I don’t know. But I’m up for it.
“You really should,” I say, as he tugs at the collar of my shirt, exposing more of my flesh.
He inches back, looks me in the eyes, and traces his fingers along the freckles on my collarbone. “I’m a little obsessed with these,” he admits.
“My freckles?” I ask, because holy shit, this man is observant.
“I noticed your freckles the day I met you,” he murmurs, then flicks his tongue across them.
I gasp, my hips swaying of their own accord, asking for more…contact.
He thrusts back, licking across my shoulder.
My knees nearly buckle. Steadying my waist, Ford laughs softly, clearly pleased by the effect he’s having.
And then he gives me more, coasting his talented mouth toward my jaw in a slow, deliberate slide.
I move with him, stretching, offering him my neck to kiss as my bones melt under his touch.
My fingers curl into his shirt, holding on as this man turns me into a new state of matter—from solid to liquid in mere seconds.
I shudder out a breath as my fingers tighten. He hums—half cocky laugh, half needy murmur, and all desire—as he reaches my ear. Then he nips at the lobe.
I gasp.
He pulls back. Tilts his head. Brushes strands of hair from my face. “You taste like summertime,” he says.
I pause, caught in the moment, in the fading sunlight as the autumn day winds down. As Ford nails it.
“It’s my lotion,” I say, my voice more feathery than ever. “It’s called Summertime Crush.”
He arches a brow, then dips his face, pressing his forehead to mine. “Good name,” he whispers.
And the closeness. Dear god, the closeness. The way he goes from full-on crashing into a kiss to slow dancing into it? It’s mind-bendingly good, and I want so much more.
I answer by grabbing his face and tugging him against me. It’s my turn to kiss—hard and desperate. I twist the fabric of his shirt in my hand, sealing my lips to his, taking another hit of my neighbor.
Your client, you idiot. You’re making out with a client.
This is wrong. This is so wrong.
But I keep kissing him anyway.
All the tension from the last couple of weeks crashes like ocean waves against the shore. And like them, this kiss is unstoppable.
So are his hands.
As I explore his mouth, his strong hands travel down my arms to my wrists, then to my waist. He drags his fingers along the hem of my blouse, untucked. Then he dusts them across my stomach.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Another laugh comes from him as he breaks the kiss. “Ten minutes,” he says, his eyes dark and dirty. His lips, curved and curious.
His words—an invitation.
I close my eyes, breathe out, and try to think straight. But his fingertips are getting to know my waist, skating across the top of my pants, teasing at the button.
I’m already going to need to change my panties before this meeting. I breathe out and give in.
“You say you’re good with your hands?” I ask, a taunt.
That devilish dimple comes out to play. “I do.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got then.”
He presses a hot, quick kiss to my lips. “Be careful what you wish for, Skylar,” he says, a filthy warning.
As he fiddles with the button on my pants, I consider stopping this. Saying we shouldn’t cross this line. We’ll be working on this house for a little while longer, and I want to make clients happy instead of my libido.
Things could go wrong. We could piss each other off. He could leave a bad review. Plus, I have to see him so damn often.