‘I said stay there.’ I stride towards her, swinging her up into my arms.
She laughs in surprise, her hands hooking around my neck. ‘I thought you’d run out on me.’
I look into her face, my grin purposefully easy. ‘Would I do that?’
There’s a moment’s hesitation in her face and then I’m kissing her, pushing out everything else as I walk straight back into the shower, uncaring of the towel still wrapped around her.
‘Lucas...’ She pants as she presses me away, her eyes dancing. ‘The towel...’
I look down at it. ‘Ah, well, too late now.’
I set her down and strip it from her, tossing it aside as I flick my wet hair from my eyes and take her in my arms. Her flushed skin is wet, and marked where I’ve been, and a primal surge of possessiveness assaults me, winds me.
Her eyes flicker beneath the droplets of water, as if she’s read it all, and she lifts her palm to my chest. ‘Keep looking at me like that and I’ll think it’s me you’re wanting for
dinner.’
I comb her hair back from her face, the water with it. ‘How about actual food for dinner and you for dessert?’
Her smile is soft, and she lowers her eyes—to avoid the run of the water or to hide, I’m not sure. And I do the one thing I know to bring her back to me and get the answer I want. I kiss her. Slow and teasingly. Until she’s kissing me back and her hands are holding tight.
Then I break away. ‘Deal?’
‘Deal...’ she breathes.
I draw her tight against me, feeling her approval upping the rush of my desire. I know I have to let the real world back in soon, but for now it can stay the hell away.
* * *
Reality comes sooner than I expect or want—in the shape of her blasted smartwatch again. I want to rip it from her. Insist she put it away, and her phone with it.
We’re sitting on my living room floor, not too far from recreating a scene from our teens, with Chinese takeaway boxes strewn across my coffee table. She’s in one of my T-shirts, her hair loosely piled atop her head, her face clean and glowing from our hot shower and the multitude of heated acts since. I’m on one side of the table and she is on the other, stretched out and perfect.
Save for that damn watch.
She looks at it and that frown is back.
‘I assume it’s your watch and not the food doing that?’
‘Hmm...?’ She looks at me, distracted, and I lean over to touch her brow, smoothing it.
‘The frown?’
She gives me a look which I interpret as an apology and wraps her legs beneath her as she takes up a spring roll. She’s forcing a calmness she doesn’t feel—I know it. But I’m silent, pressing.
She takes a bite and the food breaks into her mouth, vegetable strands escaping as she licks them up. Her dainty tongue is efficient and far more sexual than it has any right to be. She’s doing it on purpose—trying to distract me, I’m sure.
But there’s also unease building, and I want it gone.
She makes a delectable little hum in her throat. ‘No, the food is fantastic.’
I barely hear the words I’m so focused on the satisfying sound and on her lips as they turn the food over.
Distracted?
I force my focus. ‘So, what is it?’
Silently she chews, her eyes on me as if she’s gauging my potential reaction.