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So am I.
And the want beats hard between us.
That whispery kiss of her fingers against mine tells me that. The looks she gives when she doesn’t think I’m paying attention. But I am. Always. This time when we resume work, I sit closer to her, on the sofa, and the heat rises.
Little touches linger. Words are softer, sweet murmurs subconsciously designed to draw me closer to her, bend my head a little nearer.
And I’m half erect. A thrill is in my blood. I don’t think there’s been a woman I’ve wanted like I do her. It could be the forbidden element—what there is of one, the job at hand; and it could be the ease—what there is, the job at hand. But it doesn’t matter. She’s there, and so am I.
Sliding my hand along the back of the sofa, I lean in to see what she’s talking about, the juggling of intricate things I need done right, and my fingers thread through her hair and she turns, her words dying as her breath stutters.
My gaze drops to her mouth.
“Hudson…”
I want to kiss her again. The need and urge are real.
Moving a little closer, I feather my lips along hers and she sighs. “This what you want, Scarlett?”
“You’re an ass,” she whispers as she leans into me, turning her head just so, and her soft, sweet tasting lips are there for the taking, and I do.
It’s a nothing kiss, the kind that’s made of dreams, but under that delicate surface beats the blood and bones of the attraction. The erotic edge, and I want to take it further, slide down deep into her, and strip her naked as I slide on home.
“Yeah,” I say, breaking that kiss, “I am. I’ve been thinking of exactly what we’re doing here.”
“Work?”
I laugh and shake my head and get to my feet. The predator moves inside me and the game is subtle and full of the right kind of waiting.
“Something like that, Scarlett.”
She scowls, pushing up to her feet and stomping to me, poking me in the chest in the way no one ever dares to unless they happen to be one of my brothers or someone with a death wish.
“Don’t do that.”
Anyone else I’d do something about it. But I want to see where she’s going and I’m not going to lie, the passion of her low-down anger riles me in all the right ways, including my curiosity. So I let her poke. For now.
“Do what? You’re the one doing, Scarlett.”
Her scowl deepens and she pokes harder. It strikes me she’d be fucking hot to do right now, but I keep that on a controlled backburn. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re poking me.”
“Because you deserve to be beaten up and I can’t do that.”
“Too afraid?”
“Yes. And I’m not strong enough.” She breathes out hard. “You keep kissing me and then toying with me and getting angry at me if I speak to someone of the male persuasion. And then you go and tell me we can’t tell anyone.”
“To be fair, you want me to kiss you.”
“So? That’s not an answer.” Scarlett motors onward, her admission not slowing anything down. “You have it, so I don’t know which foot to put forward and that’s not fair.”
I’m not being fair. I know it. I capture her hand and hold it against my chest, rubbing my thumb over her fingers. “We’re playing a game, Scarlett. Part of that is mimicking what they call love.” The word tastes bitter.
“You don’t believe in love.”
I sigh. “And you believe in all the fairy tales of the Disney variety, don’t you?”
