"It never came up in conversation."
"It should've," she says, turning to face me."I would've liked to know I was kissing an athlete."
"Former athlete.”I move closer."And we weren't exactly discussing resumes earlier."
A tightness squeezes across her face—a momentary tension I can't quite read—before she smiles, wry and a little sad."No, we never seem to get around to that, do we?"
I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear."We don't have to talk at all."
"Professional mistake number six thousand," she murmurs, leaning into my touch.
"I've stopped counting."
"That's very unlike you."
"You bring out my slovenly side."
Her laugh turns into a gasp as I trace the line of her jaw, then the curve of her neck."Is that what this is?Slovenly?"
"Mm.Terribly disorganized.No spreadsheets whatsoever."
"The horror," she whispers as I bend to kiss the pulse point below her ear.
For all our banter, there's an undercurrent of uncertainty—as if we're both waiting for the other to come to their senses and call this off.
But then her hands find my shoulders, and mine settle at her waist, and the moment for sensible retreats passes.
"One night," I say against her skin."To get this out of our systems."
"Then back to normal."She nods, her fingers already working at my tie."Strictly professional."
"Absolutely."
We're lying to ourselves, of course.
But the fiction feels necessary, a flimsy shield against complications neither of us is prepared to face.
Her dress comes off first—a slow, deliberate unveiling that leaves her in nothing but midnight blue lingerie and the emerald pendant at her throat.
The contrast against her skin is striking enough to make me pause, just to look at her.
"What?"she asks, suddenly self-conscious.
"You're beautiful," I say, simple truth.
Something in my tone must surprise her, because her cognac-colored eyes widen slightly before she recovers."You're still wearing too many clothes."
"I'm Scottish.We're naturally overdressed."
"Funny, that's not what the internet says about kilts."
I step closer, backing her toward the bed."The internet will be disappointed tonight."
"Will I?"
"Not if I can help it."
She sits when the backs of her knees hit the mattress, looking up at me with a mixture of desire and challenge that sends heat spiraling through me.
