It’s got nothing to do with the fact that I’m a bundle of nerves and anticipation for what’s about to happen.
I could just leave. If I were making better decisions today I’d just leave, but I’m not about to start that now. Not after I’ve spent today either kissing the hell out of him or thinking about kissing the hell out of him.
It turns out that kissing Eli has two advantages: one, he’s not talking if we’re kissing, and two, it’s really, really fun. Fun enough that, technically, I’ve read this email ten times now and I haven’t absorbed the information even once, because I’m thinking about what else Eli and I could do that might be even more fun than kissing.
My door darkens. My heart spin-kicks. I raise my eyes.
“Still here?” Eli asks, sauntering in as if he didn’t know I would be.
He looks like hot rough hell. There are circles under his eyes and stubble on his face, and his hair looks like someone’s been running their hands through it. He’s wearing a white undershirt with his jacket tossed over his shoulder, and it’s still clinging to him slightly with the heat of the kitchen he just left.
And now I’m no longer thinking of kissing Eli. Now I’m thinking of that shirt balled up in the corner of my bedroom while he’s on top of me, my legs wrapped around his waist, feeling the muscles in his back ripple beneath my touch…
“Just catching up on email,” I say, tilting my head to one side, still entranced by the way his shoulders swell against the sleeves of his shirt.
Eli just grins. It’s full of swagger and slightly feral, exactly the grin that would normally irritate me to no end.
It does irritate me, just a little. But it thrills me more, especially because he comes around my desk and leans on it, right next to where I’m sitting, while he’s grinning. I look up at him, still in my office chair, mouth dry.
“Must be mighty important emails,” he says.
Our legs are touching, and that single point of heat sets off fireworks inside me.
“Most of my emails are life or death situations,” I deadpan.
God, I want to lean forward and touch him, run one hand down his muscled chest, pull up his shirt and lick his abs. Instead I glance at my open office door, certain that the moment I make a move someone will talk by.
“Once we got the wrong kind of tablecloths and someone died,” I say.
“Did they?” Eli says, still teasing. “Then don’t let me distract you from your important, lifesaving work.”
I glance at my office door again. I feel like one of those hand-cranked spinners you pick bingo numbers from, jumbled and spinning.
Anyone who caught me would totally understand, right?
“Unless you’re looking for distraction, of course,” he goes on, voice lowering. “Then I’m happy to be of service.”
I swallow, heartbeat rising, but I manage to raise one eyebrow at him.
“Well, this email is about what kind of fabric to use for napkins, so I’m not sure what you could possibly do that would tear my attention away —”
Eli kisses me again, right in front of my open office door.
God, it’s nice.
It’s needy and ferocious. It’s barely restrained. It’s incendiary, and already I’ve got one hand winding through his already-mussed hair, the other closing around the front of his shirt as I sit up straighter, leaning into him.
His strong hand is already on my cheek, sliding into my hair. I kiss him back as hard as I can, despite my open door. I kiss him back without abandon because for half the day I thought about our kiss this morning and for the other half I thought about our kiss in the kitchen, and I already decided I’m not making good decisions.
Everything about this is a bad idea, and I couldn’t care less.
After a moment we separate and I pull back, one hand on Eli’s chest.
He narrows his eyes.
“If you’re about to tell me again all the reasons we shouldn’t be doing this I have to admit I’m not terribly interested,” he drawls.
He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.
He pulls me right into him, our bodies pressed together from shoulder to toe. He’s already hard and I’m sure he knows I know. I’m filled with slow-burning fire, ready to shove him down on my desk and climb on top of him.
“Are you interested in my open door?” I tease, twisting his shirt in my fingers.
“Less than I should be,” he says, his hand sliding along the top of my waistband, where my blouse is tucked into my pants.
He kisses me again. I lean into him. My fingers find their way under his shirt and onto his warm skin, muscles flexing and bunching underneath, sending shivers of anticipation down my spine.