“My freckles?” I ask, because holy shit, this man is observant.
“I noticed your freckles the day I met you,” he murmurs, then flicks his tongue across them.
I gasp, my hips swaying of their own accord, asking for more…contact.
He thrusts back, licking across my shoulder. My knees nearly buckle. Steadying my waist, Ford laughs softly, clearly pleased by the effect he’s having. And then he gives me more, coasting his talented mouth toward my jaw in a slow, deliberate slide. I move with him, stretching, offering him my neck to kiss as my bones melt under his touch.
My fingers curl into his shirt, holding on as this man turns me into a new state of matter—from solid to liquid in mere seconds.
I shudder out a breath as my fingers tighten. He hums—half cocky laugh, half needy murmur, and all desire—as he reaches my ear. Then he nips at the lobe.
I gasp.
He pulls back. Tilts his head. Brushes strands of hair from my face. “You taste like summertime,” he says.
I pause, caught in the moment, in the fading sunlight as the autumn day winds down. As Ford nails it.
“It’s my lotion,” I say, my voice more feathery than ever. “It’s called Summertime Crush.”
He arches a brow, then dips his face, pressing his forehead to mine. “Good name,” he whispers.
And the closeness. Dear god, the closeness. The way he goes from full-on crashing into a kiss to slow dancing into it? It’s mind-bendingly good, and I want so much more.
I answer by grabbing his face and tugging him against me. It’s my turn to kiss—hard and desperate. I twist thefabric of his shirt in my hand, sealing my lips to his, taking another hit of my neighbor.
Your client, you idiot. You’re making out with a client.
This is wrong. This is so wrong.
But I keep kissing him anyway.
All the tension from the last couple of weeks crashes like ocean waves against the shore. And like them, this kiss is unstoppable.
So are his hands.
As I explore his mouth, his strong hands travel down my arms to my wrists, then to my waist. He drags his fingers along the hem of my blouse, untucked. Then he dusts them across my stomach.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Another laugh comes from him as he breaks the kiss. “Ten minutes,” he says, his eyes dark and dirty. His lips, curved and curious.
His words—an invitation.
I close my eyes, breathe out, and try to think straight. But his fingertips are getting to know my waist, skating across the top of my pants, teasing at the button.
I’m already going to need to change my panties before this meeting. I breathe out and give in.
“You say you’re good with your hands?” I ask, a taunt.
That devilish dimple comes out to play. “I do.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got then.”
He presses a hot, quick kiss to my lips. “Be careful what you wish for, Skylar,” he says, a filthy warning.
As he fiddles with the button on my pants, I consider stopping this. Saying we shouldn’t cross this line. We’ll be working on this house for a little while longer, and I want to make clients happy instead of my libido.
Things could go wrong. We could piss each other off.He could leave a bad review. Plus, I have to see him so damn often.
