His knuckles graze bare skin on the slow climb up, each brush igniting sparks that shoot all the way up my spine. He doesn’t rush. His eyes stay locked on mine, giving me every second to pull back.
I don’t. My breath comes in little gasps as I lift my arms in silent permission.
The top disappears in one smooth pull, and suddenly I’m exposed in my kitchen’s harsh light.
His hands find the zipper of my skirt, and he pauses, that same questioning look in his eyes—still checking, even though we both know I’m too far gone to stop now.
“Lift up,” he murmurs, and I rise on trembling knees.
The tartan slides down my thighs and pools on the floor. Then he pulls me back down with enough force that I gasp. I’m straddling him in nothing but lace.
Heat floods my face. I immediately cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not very toned. Or athletic. I’m quite soft, actually—probably should have mentioned that before we got to the underwear portion of the evening—”
He gently takes my arms and guides them around his neck instead. “Hey.”
His fingers tilt my chin up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice is rough, no hint of teasing. “I didn’t realize you’d be my downfall, Georgie. I’m going to hell for this.”
A shiver runs through me. “Now you’re the one playing games.”
“I don’t play games, and I don’t waste time saying things I don’t mean. I wish it weren’t true, because I hate myself for wanting you this much.”
“Hate yourself all you like.” My hips shift against him, dragging a groan from my own throat. “I—I sometimes hate you too.”
“We’re not fucking in this chair.”
“No?” I whimper.
“No.”
Then he stands, lifting me. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, arms clinging to his neck.
His breath is hot against my ear. “Which one’s your bedroom?”
Oh God. This is happening.
“Last door on the left.”
He carries me like it’s effortless, like I’m not clinging to him like a koala. I bury my face in his neck, overwhelmed by the reality of this—Patrick McLaren is carrying me to my bedroom.
“I haven’t tidied,” I mumble against his shoulder. “There are probably pants on the floor and I think I left a coffee mug on the nightstand from yesterday.”
“I don’t care about your pants, Georgie.”
“Well, that’s good because they’re very unsexy. Cotton. From Marks & Spencer. Three for ten pounds, and at least one pair has cartoon cats on them.”
He huffs a laugh against my hair. “Stop talking about your underwear while I’m trying to stay in control.”
“Sorry. I babble when I’m nervous. And when I’m excited. And when I’m being carried to bed by someone who looks like they were carved by Vikings.”
We’re at my bedroom door. This is actually happening.
TWENTY-SIX
The mirror doesn’t lie
Georgie
