She was studying her glass with apprehension. “Why does mine have ice and yours doesn’t?”
“Smell yours,” he said.
She sniffed. Shrugged. “Okay.”
“Now mine.” He tipped his glass in her direction and she held his wrist to steady the glass. The simple connection had him subconsciously moving his body closer to hers, as if she’d dragged him there by an invisible thread. She inhaled, watching him from under a fan of ginger lashes, her eyes wide and watchful.
“Scotchy,” she said.
“The ice tames the scent.”
Every part of her, from her pink mouth to her darkening pupils, to the feather-light touch on his arm, said Kiss me. And, God, how he wanted to.
She moved her hand before he could act on the impulse, lifting her glass to the mouth he wanted to capture with his. She mumbled something like “Here goes nothing,” her words echoing lightly off the cut crystal, before she took in a mouthful, held it for a second, then swallowed it down, a completely adorable scowl on her face.
She stuck her tongue out. “Really?”
A grin he couldn’t contain covered his face. It pulled his cheeks and lifted his glasses. “Scotch is an acquired taste.”
She stared into the glass as if it were filled with worms. “How do you acquire a taste for battery acid?”
His smile held. “Man. I was hoping you wouldn’t be this predictable.”
Her eyebrows tilted, making her look almost hurt. “I’m predictable?”
No. You’re adorable.
“You knew I would make a face when I drank it?” Her voice was high and tight.
“I did.”
“And you knew I’d need the water to wash the taste from my mouth.” She lifted the bottle, uncapped it, and took a swig.
He dipped his chin. “I did.”
“And”—she capped the bottle—“you knew I’d ask to taste yours next?”
He—what?
The side of her mouth curved, a feral little lift, and she gestured to his glass. “May I?”
He handed it over. “Sure.”
“I want to see what scotch without ice tastes like.” She took a drink, turning the glass to sip from the side he sipped from, her lips closing over the rim where his had a moment ago. This time she managed not to wince or frown. She did stick her tongue out, though. To lick a drop of Macallan from her bottom lip before covering it with her top lip and rubbing them together.
He shifted as subtly as he could manage with a two-by-four wedged against his zipper.
“Better.” She offered his glass, her eyes turning up to his again.
He told himself to move away, give both of them some space. But he stayed where he was in spite of his mental orders. Her eyes traveled over his body, and the tingle in his balls moved up his spine and down both legs simultaneously. Her next question didn’t help hedge his arousal.
“Do you ever take off that tie?” she asked.
He didn’t miss the opportunity to flirt with her. “I don’t wear it in the shower if that’s what you’re asking.”
Kimber sucked in a deep breath, and he hoped it was because she was imagining him naked. It was only fair since he’d pictured her that way now, too. He was playing with fire, and it was far more fun than he remembered.
He slid a glance down her arms and up again, wanting badly to reach out and touch her. Just a touch.
“You look good in green,” he said, sliding his fingers beneath the short sleeve nearest him and running the tip of his index finger along the satin-smooth skin on the inside of her upper arm.
She gasped, barely, but he’d heard it. He met her eyes, saw the flash of interest, the war she was waging with propriety, or maybe she was simply reacting to the familiarity between them. He felt it, too. Felt the charge between the scant inch separating their legs, the electric current streaming through his fingers as he tickled her flesh.
“I’m thirsty.”
He yanked his arm away from her at the sound of his nephew’s voice. Lyon lingered in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and yawning and looking utterly uninterested that his uncle was hovering over his nanny.
“Hey, buddy.” Landon had to clear his throat when the words came out as a croak.
Lyon shuffled over to the couch and climbed up and sat between them. Landon reluctantly made room. “I wanted to say good night but you were asleep,” he told his nephew, smoothing his hair against his head.
Lyon yawned again, his eyelids as heavy as sandbags. “I can’t sleep.”