I shake my head, too woozy, too drunk on pleasure to even be embarrassed. “Then, but also before. From the catio. There’s a great view of your back porch, and you look really fucking good when you do planks.”
“You watch me do planks from the catio?” It’s asked with wonder, but also…cat-ate-the-canary delight.
And I laugh because I wonder if those words have ever been spoken in that order before. “In my defense, it’s a really good show,” I say, then smile. “And I needed to get that off my chest.”
“Yeah?”
“I did. I felt…almost guilty, having watched you.”
“Onlyalmost?” he asks, catching me on that technicality.
“Well, not guilty enough to stop.”
He doesn’t seem mad, but I can’t entirely read his expression. His jaw is set. His gaze is…calculating. I hope I haven’t pissed him off. I brace myself for the fallout, holding my breath.
But then, in seconds, his blue eyes sparkle with mirth. More than I’ve ever seen before.
“Onlyalmostare my two favorite words now.”
I breathe out. “Good. That’s good,” I say, more relieved than I’d expected. “You were teasing me. Making me think you might be mad.”
“Maybe I was,” he says with an easy shrug. He licks his lips, seems to weigh something. “Or maybe I was figuring this would be a good time to let you know I watched you dance in the kitchen from my hot tub on the second floor.”
I blink off the remains of my orgasm fog. Smacking his chest, I say, “You have a hot tub and never invited me over?”
He tips his head back and laughs. “I just confessed to watching you dance in your kitchen, and your concern is why I didn’t invite you to have a soak?”
“Obviously.”
He shakes his head. “You’re too much.” Then he smacks my ass, sharp and hard. “Go freshen up, you chaos demon. You’ve got an appointment to get to.”
I’ve never been called anything remotely close to that before. And a smile steals its way across my face. I look down at my open pants and my useless underwear, then at his face—no man has ever looked more satisfied. And I can’t stop having fun with him.
“Time me,” I say.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Then I clutch the waistband of my open pants and bolt upstairs.
And two minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, I’m stuffing my feet into flats, smoothing out a new blouse, and grabbing my tote bag.
“Impressive.” He whistles.
“So are your hands,” I say.
He swats my ass again on the way out the door.
21
SEMANTICALLY AND OTHERWISE
SKYLAR
Like I’m riding off into the sunset, I slide into Ford’s car, sling the buckle across my chest, and slam the door. “Giddy up,” I say.
Before I can count to three, Ford hops into the front seat and hits the gas. “Yes, ma’am,” he says in a howdy-partner voice, and I’m a little buzzed that this stern man occasionally lets a playful side show through.
