Tank frowned. “No. I’d rather my girlfriend wear one of mine.”
“I’ll swim in it,” she pointed out, not bothering to comment on his use of the term “girlfriend” because she liked the sound of it way more than she should.
“You’ll look adorable in it.” Apparently, Tank had decided things were settled, because he started repacking the food in the bag. He handed her the Pad Thai, clearly noticing that had been her favorite. “I’ll leave that with you. You didn’t eat enough.”
Tank had eaten a lot—the man could freaking eat—but there was still a ton of leftovers.
“Sounds like you and I need to start planning some dates.”
“Fake dates,” she said, compelled to correct him. She needed that descriptor to help her keep her head in the game.
“What are you doing next Thursday night?”
She opened her calendar on her computer. “There’s no game that night, so I’ll probably curl up on the couch in my pj’s and catch up on all my shows. I’m painfully behind on Below Deck, and I haven’t even started the new Bridgerton yet.”
“Think I could convince you to change your plans?”
“It depends. It would have to be a pretty good offer. I love Bridgerton.”
Tank chuckled. “Padraig let me in on a little secret. His cousin Ailis is home.
“Ooookay,” she drawled, because she didn’t remember who Ailis was.
“She’s the cousin who’s married to Hunter Maxwell. I told you about her, remember?”
The light went on, and she nodded.
“Hunter’s planning to do an impromptu performance at Pat’s Pub. They’re closing the pub to the public. The performance is invite-only. I scored an invitation for me and my plus one.”
“You convinced me,” she said excitedly. “Holy shit! I love Hunter Maxwell so much.”
Tank stood, moving around her desk and giving her a scowl that looked out of place on his face. “I’m starting to think I might be a jealous boyfriend.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.”
“Am I laughing?” he asked, far too seriously. Then he leaned forward and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Looks like I’m gonna have to stake a strong claim.”
“This isn’t real,” she whispered, when he gripped her upper arms, pulling her out of her chair, before perching her on the edge of her desk. It should be scary how strong he was, how easily he could move her where he wanted.
It wasn’t.
“Then you can call this practice instead,” he murmured, his lips a mere inch from hers.
Like the kiss after the gala, Tank took her lips with a passion McKenna never knew existed outside of romance novels. He wrapped his arms around her back, his large hands stroking up and down her spine, before looping her ponytail around a fist and giving it a tug.
That pull found a direct line to her nipples and her pussy, both reacting strongly.
McKenna gripped his waist, her fingers digging into his sides as she sought purchase, desperate for something to anchor herself. She went light-headed as the kiss dragged on, but air was no longer a necessity. All she needed to survive were his lips on hers and his arms around her, holding her, touching her.
All she needed?
McKenna broke away, gasping, trying to regain her breath. She didn’t need a mirror to know she was flushed, the temperature in her office skyrocketing.
She wanted to congratulate herself on finding the strength to pull away, but she couldn’t. Because now, just like the night of the gala, she’d left it too long, letting the kiss linger for minutes, not seconds.
“This isn’t real,” she said again.
Tank considered that for only a second before calling her out. “Are you saying that to me or to you?”
