He shifts the gear stick, his voice dropping an octave. “I wasn’t aware you were in such a hurry to get home.”
“I’m not,” I murmur, my fingers drifting close enough to brush the fabric of his trousers.
For one glorious second, I think he’s going to snap—swerve the car to the side of the road, yank me onto his lap, and finally do something about the ungodly amount of sexual tension suffocating this vehicle.
“Some things,” he says, “are worth taking slow.”
“What do you know,” I murmur, my hand trailing just shy of his thigh, “we’ve hit another red light.”
I watch his jaw clench.
“Stop being a brat.”
Oh.Well. That’s unexpectedly hot.
“If you must know,” he continues, “that skirt of yours is incredibly distracting.”
My breath catches.
Well. Now we’re talking.
I shift in my seat, parting my legs just enough to be plausibly deniable. Just a casual adjustment. Nothing to see here.
“Daisy.”
The way he growls my name. Half warning.
“What?” I blink up at him, all wide-eyed. “I’m just getting comfortable.”
Which is a lie, obviously. I’ve never been less comfortable in my life.
Mostly because I am currently soaking through my knickers.
I rest my hand on my inner thigh, letting my fingers trail higher as I shift my legs wider.
“If your goal is to get us both killed,” he grits out, glancing up at his rearview mirror, “you’re going about it rather effectively.”
I hum, running my fingers along the edge of my skirt. “I thought surgeons were meant to have good focus.”
“My focus is excellent. Which is how I can tell you exactly how many inches that skirt has ridden up in the last five minutes.”
I let out a breathy laugh—then suddenly realize we’re no longer moving.
Wait.We’re here?
Somehow, in my horny haze, we have arrived at our destination.
“Would you like to come up for a cup of tea?” I hear myself ask. Like we’re in some quaint period drama.
He turns to face me fully.
And dear god.
The way he looks at me—the slow drag of his gaze over me like he’s barely restraining himself—makes my stomach swoop violently.
“Yes.”
Just—yes.
