Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)
“Good afternoon,” he says, shutting the door behind him.
“Hello.”
“You look beautiful today. I love that color on you.”
“Stop with the book manners stuff,” I laugh.
He shrugs, heading for the cupcakes. “Ah, you made both.”
“Only because I was bored.”
I watch him select the one he wants, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. His cheeks lack the color they usually have and the greens of his eyes are a little duller than normal.
“Up all night?” He asks, peeling away at a red velvet cupcake. “Thinking of me?”
“Hardly,” I scoff. “I made those and was in bed by eight-thirty.” Lies, lies, all lies.
“Better than me. My cousin came by and I may have had a little too much tequila.”
“I can’t drink that,” I say, frowning. I wonder if what happened yesterday afternoon had anything to do with him drinking so much. I don’t recall seeing him with a hangover ever before. The idea leaves me feeling uneven.
“Does it make your clothes fall off? If so, I have a flask in my car I can go get.” He bites into the cupcake. “Big fan of the cream cheese icing. Not quite as good as the peanut butter, but close.”
I go back to my computer screen, needing a distraction from the way his mouth works back and forth. Things are too normal, too we-didn’t-fuck-like-monkeys-yesterday.
The room becomes too small for the two of us as I remember the heat of the pantry yesterday as we slipped off our clothes. His cologne reminds me of the taste of his skin when I bit into his shoulder and I wonder if my teeth marks are still there.
All night I wondered how he would react once the orgasm wore off and reality set in. How he couldn’t just not message me back because he would see me every day unless one of us changed jobs. I’m not egotistical enough to think I’m any different than anyone else he sleeps with. Not really. Maybe we know more about each other. Maybe things between us have taken some obtuse turn. But none of that changes the fact that Lance is Lance and I’m me.
“I wasn’t going to come up here today,” he admits. “I was going to stay in my classroom like a responsible professional and work through lunch.” He chomps down on another cupcake. “Yet, here I am.”
“Why?”
“Why what? Why wasn’t I coming up here or why did I decide to?”
“Either,” I offer, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
My hands drop from the keyboard, my attempt at distraction pointless. There’s no way I’m going to be thinking of anything other than him. I haven’t in the last however many hours. I’m certainly not going to pull it off with him standing in front of me.
He takes another bite and considers this. “I thought maybe you wanted space or that I should give it to you. Or, quite possibly, it’s just what I do historically after sex.”
“Fair enough.”
“But,” he adds, almost taking a lemon bar but picking up a third cupcake instead, “I then realized that was ridiculous. We were friends before you came all over me. So why in the hell can’t we have both? We’re very, very good at both.”
“Because your language is horrible, you eat all my cupcakes,” I say, “and your come was still leaking out of my vagina this morning.”
I didn’t mean to say that. But as the cupcake falls out of his hand and lands icing-first on top of book order forms, I’m glad I did. It takes him a full five seconds to regroup.
“See?” he says, his white teeth shining. “I come in here to be friendly and you make it dirty.”
“Yeah, I made it dirty because I’m the one who brought up our interaction yesterday. Try again.”
“No, I brought it up but it’s still your fault.”
“Oh, really,” I laugh, crossing one leg over the other. “And how do you figure that?”
He leans forward, his grin as mischievous as I’ve ever seen it. “You make it impossible not to want to lay you on the top of this desk and see if I can’t fill you up again.”
My thighs burn I’m squeezing them so hard, my mouth watering at the thought of his body on mine. He knows exactly what I’m thinking and, by the look he’s giving me, he’s thinking the same thing.
“Are you wet for me?” he goads, thinking he’s getting the best of me.
Game on.
Holding his gaze, I make a point of slipping my hand under my desk. His pupils widen, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he watches me. My finger glides through my slickness. I hold it in the air, inches from his face. “I’d say so.”
His eyes burn, his temple pulsing, as he watches my finger move in the light.
“The question is, Mr. Gibson, are you hard?” I drag my gaze from his face to his swollen crotch and nod. “Looks like a yes.”