It’s ridiculous, unnecessary,overbearing—
And so, so sweet.
He steps closer, fingers tilting my chin up.
“That,” he murmurs, “and the fact that I hate the thought of you going home alone this late at night.”
My stomach betrays me with a somersault, like an idiot.
It’s inconvenient how attractive he is when he’s being all protective and broody.
We’ve had numerous hot dates at his place over the past two weeks, and the butterflies? They haven’t left. They’re thriving. Multiplying. The only thing I hate is lying to Sophia, but with the wedding chaos consuming her, she’s barely asking me any questions about what’s going on in my world.Conveniently.
“I appreciate it, I do.” I sigh, leaning against the doorframe. “But you don’t need to keep booking me a taxi. This must be costing you a fortune. The Underground runs late now, you know.”
His jaw flexes. “I do need to. For my peace of mind. I wish you’d consider getting a presenting job during the day.”
I fight the urge to groan, because we have had this exact debate more than once. “It’s not like the BBC is ringing me up with a primetime slot,” I say lightly. I hate how small my career makes me feel sometimes, especially standing next to a man who saves lives.
“I told you, I know people there. I could arrange for you to meet someone. Maybe get an interview.”
I snort. “For what? TheNews at Ten?”
His lips twitch. “I think you’d certainly brighten up the headlines.”
I roll my eyes as he steps closer.
His fingers skim over my shoulders, sending a shiver rippling down my spine as he gently slides my coat off. Like he’s unwrapping something precious. A Ferrero Rocher.
Ever the gentleman.
He tilts my chin up and kisses me.
Not rushed. Not desperate.
Steady. Sure. Like he’s telling me something without words.
It’s enough to make a girl forget she once tested a vacuum cleaner’s suction power on her own face during live television.
His hands find my waist, pulling me in, and Imeltinto him, my fingers curling into his shirt.
And fuck, he’s hard.
I reach down to palm his cock through his trousers.
“This little skirt of yours,” he growls, his accent sharpening each clipped word. “It’s indecent.”
I lift the hem of my BritShop TV skirt with mock innocence. “Just wait till you see how wet I am under it. Makes this skirt look church-appropriate.”
He takes my jaw in his hands. “You’re a bloody menace to my self-control, my darling.”
Then his lips are on mine.
We’re kissing with our eyes open, neither of us willing to look away—like if weblink, the other might vanish. Or maybe like we’re both waiting for the inevitable moment when one of us comes to our senses.
Something shifts in the air.
One minute he’s telling me I’d be great on the BBC, the next those surgeon’s hands are frantically working at his belt.
