He crushed her against him. “No shirt,” he mumbled into her throat, flicking his tongue out to taste her neck. She angled it toward him, giving him room to stray. Soon a surge of heat headed south.
Shane maneuvered himself between her thighs and braced himself on his arms when Crickitt pushed against his chest.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said truthfully. “I just—don’t you need a minute before…?”
He lowered himself, his arousal brushing against her belly. Breathing in through flared nostrils, he brushed the curls away from her forehead with both hands. “No,” he murmured. “Do you?”
She darted her eyes to one side, unable to meet his heated gaze. Shane was a caliber of lover she wasn’t used to, and now they both knew it. The remark only fueled his confidence. He kissed her, his roaming hands precise and perfect.
After making love again, Shane cradled her against him. She wound her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck before lifting up on one elbow to taste his perfect lips. The taste went from sweet to fiery in the span of a few seconds.
He untangled their limbs, stood, and extended his hand. “Come on.” Helping her to her feet, he led her to her room and crawled under the comforter next to her.
And she didn’t give putting on a shirt a second thought.
Chapter 25
Crickitt didn’t want to open her eyes. If she did, it would mark the end of the most amazing night of her life. And she didn’t want it to end. Ignoring the sun streaming through the window over her bed, she squeezed her eyes shut and snuggled into the sheets, letting the memories of Shane’s hands on her skin wash over her.
Light seeped in, interrupting her daydream. She flung out an arm in search of a pillow when her hand encountered nothing but cool, empty sheets on the other side.
She sat up. And frowned. Even though she’d prepared herself to wake up alone, to not feel slighted if Shane wandered off sometime in the middle of the night, she couldn’t help feeling a pang of loss.
Then again, why should she feel slighted? It wasn’t as if he was gone gone. She could hear him clattering around in the kitchen on the other side of the wall. And he was…humming?
A satisfied smile curved her lips. She couldn’t blame him. She felt a little like humming herself. She tossed the blankets aside and climbed out of bed. She suspected spending the night with him would be nothing less than mind-blowing. Shane didn’t disappoint. Muscles she hadn’t used in a long while flinched as she tiptoed across the room, sore in all the right places.
You had sex with your boss.
“Yes, I did,” she murmured to herself. Her ridiculously hot, kind, funny, more-money-than-God boss. She refused to feel even an ounce of regret. She hadn’t made any promises or proclamations. She had no reason to feel upset just because she didn’t wake up next to him. Probably better to avoid that whole morning-breath thing anyway.
Crickitt hustled into the bathroom to shower. She scrunched her hair with a towel, leaving her curls to air-dry, and dressed in a pair of shorts and a tank top. She bypassed her shoes, padding into the kitchen with an extra zip in her step.
But when she encountered Shane’s broad back, she froze, her self-confidence falling away like autumn leaves. He stood at the counter buttering a stack of toast, the soft scratch of the knife bringing goose bumps to her skin. Just seeing him there, so real and solid, reminded her of every pulse-skittering thing she’d done with him last night. Sans clothing.
Her arms ached to encircle his waist, and her fingers curled recalling knotting them into his thick, dark hair as he peppered her belly with kisses. She didn’t have any casual sex history to draw on, but she was pretty sure mornings after didn’t include cuddling. Cuddling seemed so…personal.
More personal than what you did last night?
No, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Last night was last night and this morning was…confusing.
“Good morning,” Shane greeted her. “I let you sleep.”
“Thanks.” She drew a curl behind her ear and reminded herself this didn’t have to be awkward. Even if all she could do was picture what was beneath his cargo shorts.
He brushed by without touching her, resting the plate of warm toast on the table next to an open jelly jar. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Was his smile genuine or practiced? It irked her that she couldn’t tell. Shaking off the thought, she sat and reached for a slice of toast, nibbling on one corner.
Unanswered questions gnawed at her. Questions like, Would they talk about last night? Or pretend it never happened? Would he want to do it again? Three times last night suggested he wasn’t dissatisfied with her…didn’t it?