“Deadly,” he promised.
“Who are you texting?” she asked, dragging her shirt over her head.
“Everyone.”
Nick: For the next hour unless there is a fire or a life-threatening medical emergency, everyone is forbidden from entering the third floor, allowing access to anyone who wants access to the third floor, calling, texting, shouting for, or emailing any resident of the third floor. Starting now.
He shucked his jeans and left them where they fell.
Mrs. Penny: Sounds like the whippersnappers are getting it on.
Fred: Riley, I think you have my favorite chopsticks. I’ll be up in a minute to get them.
Nick: Fred, if you step one foot up here I will duct tape you to the lift chair. You can wait for your chopsticks.
Lily: Oh my! Do you need any of my flavored massage oils? The Tahitian Vanilla tastes just like ice cream.
Nick: Thanks and definitely not.
Mr. Willicott: There’s a third floor? What’s up there?
Mrs. Penny: An orgy.
Fred: We should have a new code word.
Lily: What a great idea! A sexy code word, and whenever any of us use it, someone has to have sex with us!
Mrs. Penny: For God’s sake woman. I need to see your prescriptions. I think your doc put you on the wrong hormones.
Nick threw the deadbolt, hooked the door chain, and dragged his t-shirt over his head. He hurled it in the direction of the couch and advanced toward Riley.
She was naked from head to toe. It was his favorite look on her. She put the chicken down and braced for impact.
“If your batty grandmother thinks she can convince you to get rid of me, she’s gonna be very disappointed,” he said, boosting her up and wrapping her legs around his waist.
“Uh-huh. Okay,” she said, sealing her mouth to his.
And there it was. That weird swoopy tickle in his torso. It was a new, disconcerting kind of emotional vertigo. And he was going to embrace the shit out of it.
“Ready to test out the table?” He kissed a trail down her throat and hissed out a breath when her nails bit into his back.
“Oh, yeah.”
He slid her onto the table and pushed her knees apart, wishing he had the restraint to show a little finesse. But he’d been denied too many times today.
“Condom?” she asked breathlessly.
He grinned and jutted his chin toward the decorative cookie jar thing in the center of the table. “Look inside.”
She raised an eyebrow and bowed back, reaching for the jar.
“Seriously? A condom stash centerpiece?”
He snatched the foil packet out of her hand. “You got a problem with that?”
Her lips were parted, eyelids heavy. “I have no problem,” she panted.
“Good because both nightstands are stocked, and that book on the coffee table is hollow inside.”
