"Give me a second." His jaw is working, eyes closed, breathing slow like he's trying to will his body into submission.
This might actually kill me. Death by lap-sitting. They'll find my body and Finn will give the eulogy and it'll just be him laughing for twenty minutes straight while explaining how I died of mortification after basically dry-humping my—what, roommate? Friend? The guy whose bed I've been sharing for two nights who definitely has feelings about me sitting in his lap right now based on the very obvious evidence currently pressed against my thigh—
"This is mortifying," I whisper.
"For which one of us?"
I laugh despite everything, a little strangled. "Both?"
His mouth curves slightly. His hands haven't let go. Haven't loosened their grip at all. "Yeah. Both."
"I should get up now."
"Probably a good idea." But he doesn't let go immediately. His thumbs stroke once across my hip bones—deliberate, possessive—before he helps me stand.
I still can't look at him. Can't process what just happened. Can't think about the fact that I was sitting in his lap, feeling his cock hard against my thigh, while he gripped my hips and toldme to stop moving in that voice that made everything inside me clench.
"I'm gonna go—inventory things. Over there. Far away from you and your—" I gesture vaguely. "—lap."
I escape to the back room and press my hands to my burning face.
Behind me, I hear Finn's voice, bright with delight: "Did she just—"
"Don't," Holt warns.
"Did you—"
"Finn."
"I'm just saying, that was—"
"Walk away."
"You know what? If we had HR, I'd be filing a hostile work environment complaint. This much sexual tension should come with hazard pay."
"Finn."
"I'm just saying! OSHA would have opinions. Safety regulations. Mandatory distance requirements—"
"Get back to work."
Finn's laughter echoes through the shop.
I stay in the back room for a solid five minutes, trying to get my breathing under control. Trying not to think about how good it felt to be in his lap. How right. How much I wanted to stay there.
When I finally emerge, Holt's focused very intently on an engine. His shoulders are tight in a way that suggests he's working through something mentally, possibly involving cold thoughts and baseball statistics. He doesn't look at me.
We dance around each other for the rest of the afternoon. Careful. Too careful. Every accidental brush of shoulders feels electric. Every time I catch him watching me, something hot and wanting coils low in my stomach.
Around four, I'm changing the oil on a sedan and he comes over with a part I need.
"Thanks," I say, reaching for it.
"Scout," he says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"I'm trying really hard to be professional right now."
