“If you’d prefer, we can change the subject. Talk about something more distracting.”
“You do seem good at distracting women,” I reply with a smirk, letting my gaze drip over his body.
“Only when I’m inspired.” He leans closer across the table and those blue eyes draw me in again, magnets that are impossible to tear myself away from. “And I must say, you are extremely inspiring, Clove Walker.”
I raise an eyebrow, grinning. “What exactly do I inspire in you?”
“Dirty as hell fantasies for one thing.” He hooks a leg around mine under the table and slides his calf against mine. I catch my breath, brace myself against the table with both hands. But he lets me go almost right away and leans back in his seat, casual and nonchalant once more, as though he didn’t just say that. “For another, you make me want to know more about you. I mean, I know the basics. Name, address of course, and the volume of Amazon packages you get on a weekly basis…”
My cheeks flush bright red at the reminder of how we know one another. Of how well he knows my private details. I also take the opportunity to kick him lightly under the table. “Hey, I don’t get nearly as many packages as Mr. Horton down in 3C, okay?”
“True, but he’s going for the Guinness World Record of longest a man can go without ever leaving his apartment, so he hardly counts.”
“When was the last time you saw him outside?” I muse.
“November three years ago,” Zayne answers without hesitation, and I laugh again.
“No, but seriously, do you think he’s okay in there?”
“I bet he’s got a more interesting life than all the rest of us combined.” Zayne shakes his head with a half-laugh. “Watch, we’ll find out one day that all those food deliveries and household supplies he orders are actually secret spy equipment in disguise.”
“Ooh, yes, and I’ll bet he’s got a Russian spy lover who sneaks into his apartment via the fire escape every night for secret trysts.”
“Who’d have thought Mr. Horton would be the kinky type, huh?” Zayne lifts an eyebrow, smirking.
“Guess it just goes to show that you can’t judge a book by its cover.” I lift an eyebrow in return, unable to keep a wide smile from dancing across my face.
“True enough.” He’s leaning forward again, and so am I, unable to stop myself. He’s not just magnetic, he has a gravitational pull of his own. “After all, I never would have guessed you were so naughty, Ms. Walker.”
“I never would have guessed you were so dynamic, Zayne.”
“Pearson,” he says, filling in the unspoken blank.
My cheeks flush. “We seem a little uneven here, Zayne Pearson. You know way more about me than I do you. So come on, share some details.”
“What do you want to know?” He tilts forward, so close to me suddenly that his lips graze my ear as he whispers. “Beside the size of my cock?”
My cheeks burn red-hot now, on fire. But the rest of me is burning too. Especially my belly and the growing tight spot between my legs. I swear, when he talks dirty, I feel it directly in my pussy, like an electric shot straight to my core. “That’s definitely on the list,” I murmur with a grin. “I mean, I do have that one lovely photo, but I have to say, I’m tempted to request more…”
“Done,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. My eyebrows rise. I must look surprised because his grin deepens and he adds, “Of course, that means I get to ask for something in exchange.”
I turn my face a little, so our cheeks are almost touching now. We’re close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, and I catch his scent again, every bit as intoxicating as it was last night. Salty and sweet all at once. “And what is it you desire, Mr. Pearson?”
“Turnabout is fair play,” he answers. “A photo for a photo. You teased me with that sexy little lingerie piece last night…” He lifts a hand slowly and lets it hover in the air between us. My breath catches in my throat, my whole body tense in anticipation of his touch. When it comes, it’s feather-light, just the faintest caress, his fingertips grazing across my collarbone before he drops his hand to the table once more. “I’d like to see what’s underneath.”
If my cheeks felt hot before, now they could start a fire. But the idea of sending him a photo of my breasts, something that would normally raise a whole lot of red flags on a first date, has me feeling hot and bothered instead. Because it leads me to imagining more—him jerking off in the mail room while he’s supposed to be working, unable to help himself, too turned on by the image of me, by my breasts, my body, the idea of me.