Page 37 of Under Her

She isn’t wearing a coat, and a slight chill is in the air.

I don’t ask if she’s cold because something tells me that, right now, she’d reject the offer of my jacket.

So, instead, I slide my jacket off, keeping pace with her, and I step closer and hang it over her shoulders.

She stops abruptly. Her eyes flash to mine.

“You looked cold,” I say gently.

Her lips press together, like she’s about to argue with me, so I’m surprised when she says, “Thank you.” Her words are soft, and they curl in around my chest and settle there.

She slips her arms into my jacket.

It’s huge on her. And the sight of her wearing my jacket sets off something primal inside me.

I want to pick her up, carry her off to my lair, and do dirty, dirty things to her all night long.

Heat flares in my groin, and I have to bite back a moan at the images flashing through my head.

Morgan starts walking again, and I follow, falling in step beside her.

I shove my hands in my pants pockets to stop myself from doing something stupid, like grabbing her and kissing her right here on the street.

We walk in silence for a while. I can’t think of a thing to say that doesn’t consist of the words kiss and fuck, so I keep my mouth shut, as I know I can’t do either of those things with her, no matter how much I want to.

My parents love her, and I know they would kick my ass to hell and back if I screwed things up with her working for the business.

And I know me. I’d screw things up.

Business, I’m great at. Women, not so much. Well, I’m great at fucking them, but anything beyond that? Nope.

“Your mom and dad seemed…happy with my idea,” she says softly.

I slide my eyes to her. “They are happy with your idea. More than happy.”

The smile that appears at my words sparks alive every sexual feeling in my body like nothing ever has before.

If her smile can do that to me, then I can only imagine what it would feel like to be inside her.

Why does the one woman who excites me this much have to be the one woman I can’t touch?

I try to tell myself that that’s the reason. Because I can’t touch her.

But it’s not.

It’s her.

I can feel my cock start to swell in my pants. In an attempt to direct my thoughts elsewhere, I say, “So, I know you lived in Evanston when we were at Northwestern and you live in Chicago now, but where are you from originally?”

“Decatur,” she says.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been.”

“You’re not missing much.” Her lips lift at the corners.

“You didn’t like it?”

“No, I love it. It’s home. But it’s not as”—she wafts her hands around, as though trying to find the words—“exciting as Chicago, if that’s the right word to use.”