Filthy Scrooge

Her head thunked against the door. “This isn’t a good idea. Your brother will be back in a few minutes.”

“Then shut up and let me find out.”

“Mr. Murdock…”

I trailed my fingers around her knee and along the back of her thigh. “Really, I think you can

go with Linc or even Lincoln, don’t you? Probably should get used to the name. You’ll be screaming it for the next three days.”

“You said I needed to stay at your place for the next few days. Nothing about this.”

I traced the lines of her panties, my gaze never leaving hers no matter how badly I wanted to find out what color her underwear was. Red as her cherry lips? Green as her little skirt, or worse…white. As innocent and flawless as she felt under the velvet material. “Do you want me to stop?”

She licked her lips. “It’s probably wrong to say no.”

“Nothing is wrong here.” I filled my hands with the lush curves of her ass. “Nothing about what we’re going to do in the next few days is wrong.”

Her breath shuddered out as she traced the side of her thumb along the stubborn whorl of hair at the center of my hairline. No matter how short I kept it, the curls came out just there at my widow’s peak.

I’d been lax about haircuts in the busy season. A few more weeks and I’d look like Ronald McDonald’s darker ginger cousin.

Her fingers trembled, then steadied in my hair. I closed my eyes as her short nails scored along my scalp lightly.

“I want this.”

I opened my eyes at her soft words. They were direct and without artifice. I couldn’t remember the last time a woman had said something so simply. So honestly.

Instead of answering her—because fuck if I could actually speak right now—I nudged her feet apart and slipped my hands under the lacy edge of silk.

She clenched under my touch. She was all tight muscles under smooth, warm skin. I kneaded her generous ass. She was built to touch—the perfect level of softness to hang onto. Just like I’d done on the dance floor the night before.

Not rail thin, with a thin veneer of sinew over bone like many of the women at the clubs. A lot of them starved themselves in between spin classes and yoga until there wasn’t any softness left. Not this woman. She was strong and fit with curves for days.

I nudged up her skirt and groaned.

White.

They just had to be white.

They were cut high on her waist with scalloped lace edges drawing a line right to her plump lips where a little spot of dampness told me exactly where to go.

She’d been thinking of this as much as I had.

Since last night?

Even before I knew who she was, I’d dreamed of her. Last night when the whiskey hadn’t done its job, I’d woken in a tangle of sweat and lonely sheets. My cock had been beyond morning wood. It had taken two cold showers and a pitiful jack-off session to kill the crazy memory of her in my arms.

Her hips twitched lightly under my hold, reminding me of last night. Of her unconscious rhythm in the moment. She was slightly more stilted here, not so sure of herself.

I didn’t mind.

I didn’t want her at ease. I’d rather have her on edge and uncomfortable. Just as I was. Because this wasn’t going to be a release. It was just a promise of what was to come.

I brought one hand around to the front of her, my thumb following the fragile lace edge. I dragged the material over to reveal her pussy. Smooth. Completely bare.

Jesus.

I hadn’t been expecting that.