But the more days that passed, the more strongly I felt it. That girlhood crush of mine returned, blazed hotter, got a little stronger, even dirtier.
One night, after having seen him walking around in his room in nothing but a low-slung towel, it had been torture not to reach down between my thighs, and ease the ache of undeniable sexual frustration. The bed groaned like I was getting lucky when I just turned in bed. I couldn’t imagine how it would sound if I actually was engaging in something steamy. Even if it was by myself.
I tried to shake it off, be rational about it, figure it was normal to fantasize about someone you used to have a giant crush on. Especially when you were living together, existing in close proximity.
But as he moved in close, as his signature scent assaulted me with its nearness, as his body heat could be felt through both our clothes, as his thigh brushed mine.
“I’ve always had this fantasy about a woman making me pancakes on my birthday,” he told me, completely throwing me off. Those were not words I had been expecting. The tone, however–deep, rough–was what I had maybe fantasized about more than a few times. His sex-voice, I was sure. And, God, how effective it was. My whole body buzzed in response.
“R-really?” I asked, hearing the throaty, choked sound of my voice.
“Yeah,” he agreed, head tipping down slightly, eyes holding mine captive, something that made my chest feel tight. “Wanted it for years. Still haven’t gotten it.”
His birthday was in a few weeks.
A part of me wanted to believe he was hoping I could make that fantasy of his come true. Even if the other part of me knew it wasn’t what he meant, that I wasn’t who he wanted starring in the role.
“Does this fantasy involve nudity and high heels?” I asked, trying for light and teasing even if my heart was sinking a bit at the idea that while he was a fantasy of mine, that I was not one for him.
I expected his usual lip twitch followed by a smile, the light dancing in his brown eyes.
What I got, though, was seriousness, eyes that were heavy-lidded but a little more copper than I was used to.
Intense.
It was an intense look.
And–dare I even think it–heated.
“Wouldn’t turn that down,” he admitted in that same sexy, grumbling voice that shivered through my body. Inside and out.
Body close, I knew he felt it.
I knew it because a split second after it happened, his entire body stiffened, jolted, spun away from me.
His hand groped for his phone on the island as he hastily made his way toward the front door.
“I’ll be late tonight.”
He’d practically barked the words at me.
Alone, I sank back against the counter, body as out of control as my mind seemed to be, leaping from one thought to another. All of them on polar opposites from the other. Some full of longing and the belief that he felt it too, the others telling me I was being silly and hopeful, projecting my feelings onto him.
The only thing that seemed to drag me out of the swirling thoughts was the clock on the wall across from me, telling me I was already late enough that I was unlikely to be able to get my boss’s coffee, and still make it to my desk before he walked through the door. And knowing I would be scolded for it.
It didn’t matter that being his executive assistant was just a role I was playing. It didn’t change the fact that I, as a person, hated conflict, that I struggled with being yelled at, with having any small misstep thrown in my face.
I was someone who cried when they got lectured.
Not wanting to burst into tears at work, I simply always tried to do well, anticipate needs, never put myself in the position to be yelled at.
My stomach should have been in my throat as I rushed out of the house, as I got to the coffee shop, as I raced into the office, knowing that Phillip was already at his desk.
My stomach was certainly not right, but, this time, it had absolutely nothing to do with my job, or my boss.
No.
It had everything to do with Lincoln.
The more the day dragged on, the more I had myself convinced that the heat I sensed between us was real, that Lincoln had reacted the way he had because he thought I was off-limits.
He probably still saw me as the girl I had been.
Gunner still called me ‘kid’ when he saw me. Despite leaving childhood behind–in the legal sense of the word–almost eight years ago. The last time I ran into Quin, he’d been ready to yell at the bartender for giving me a drink before I reminded him I was of-age.