Naughty or Nice

I murmur an incoherent ‘yes’ and keep my eyes fixed ahead. It’s hard enough that her perfume fills the space. To look at her in this private enclosure will tip me over. Make me think to hell with security cameras and giving Ron an eyeful.

‘Something wrong?’

She’s looking at me. I can make out her confused frown in my periphery and it’s killing me. The urge to pull her to me and be done with it.

I never realised this lift took so long.

Jesus.

I let go of a trapped breath and the lift doors finally open onto my private foyer.

I gesture for her to lead the way and hang back a second longer than necessary. Again, space. Much-needed space.

I want to point her in the direction of the drinks cabinet and tell her to fix her own drink, but I’m a sucker for etiquette.

You’d think restrictive running shorts would provide some resistance against the nagging erection I’m already sporting, but it seems not. I feel exposed, both physically and mentally, my brain constantly teasing me with memories of her naked and writhing over me.

I clear my throat and stride forward to the kitchen, assuming she will follow—which she does. I can sense her continued frown, but I need that shower. Fast.

‘What would you like? Wine? Gin and tonic? Beer?’

She used to like a beer. When she wasn’t supping champagne with her well-to-do chums. Like that night... Her birthday bash, her white dress, the taste of her lips, those lips that I’ve yet to enjoy again... It’s all there, singeing my body, my mind.

She laughs as she shrugs off her coat and slings it over one of the bar stools that line the centre island. ‘You know, no one ever offers me a beer.’

‘You forget how well I know you.’

It’s out before I can stop it—the reminder of the past and how well we used to know one another. But this time she doesn’t shrink away from it. She only smiles at me, a reminiscent look in her eye that has me heating up further, and I snap my gaze away as I pull open the fridge and grab myself a beer.

‘I guess you just don’t look the type.’

‘No—much to my parents’ pleasure, I’m sure.’

The smile is still in her voice, the connection, and it’s pulling me in.

‘They hate seeing me with a bottle.’

‘Well, they’re not here now. Beer?’ My tone is tighter than I’d like, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes sparkle into mine with such mischief... Christ, I want her, need her... So bad.

‘Why not.’

I’m practically climbing inside the fridge in my need to cool down and hide my raging hard-on from her gaze. I grab her a bottle too, and place both down on the counter, turning away as I swing the door closed and pull a bottle opener out of a drawer.

I’m so fixated on breathing steadily that

I barely notice her move until she’s right alongside me, staring at the wall. No, not at the wall. At the shelf and the photo framed atop it.

Fuck.

It’s been there so long it’s part of the furnishings. I curse my stupidity. I should’ve remembered—should’ve done something.

‘You still have this?’

I can hear the incredulity in her tone. Hell, I’m incredulous with myself.

I look at the bottles as I open them and inject nonchalance into my tone. ‘It was a good night.’

She’s leaning across the counter; her eyes slide from the incriminating photograph to mine. ‘No wonder you remember what I was wearing...’