Struan takes the jumper, something unreadable flickering across his face before his usual easy expression slides back into place. “Aye, of course. I’ll grab Isla.” He pulls the jumper on and heads for the door, pausing at the threshold. “Night, Ainsley. Sleep well.”
“Night,” I manage.
I listen to his footsteps sound across the landing, hear him coax Isla away from the game, hear the front door open and close.
I let out a long breath.
What the hell just happened?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
STRUAN
The knocking is insistent, urgent, dragging me from sleep. Huh? What . . . ? Who . . . ?
I stumble out of bed and yank open my bedroom door.
Ainsley.
She’s barefoot in a tiny nightie that barely covers her thighs, her hair rumpled and wild, like she’s been tossing and turning on the other side of my bedroom wall.
“Ainsley? What?—”
She doesn’t answer. Just reaches up, grips my face with both hands, and pulls me down to her mouth.
For a heartbeat I’m frozen, my brain trying to catch up. How did she even get in the house? But then her tongue slides against mine and, Christ, I’m gone. I haul her against me, one hand tangling in her hair, the other splayed across her back. She makes this tiny sound—half gasp, half moan—and it spears straight through me.
Her hands slide down to grip my arse, pulling me tighter against her, and fuck, there’s no way she doesn’t feel exactly what she’s doing to me. The thin cotton of her nightie doesn’t hide a thing—not from her, not from me. She’s all heat and soft curves, fitting against me like she belongs right here.
I get my hands under her thighs and lift them, and she wraps her legs around my waist. We stumble back towards the bed, her mouth hot and demanding on mine, teeth nipping at my bottom lip.
“Struan,” she breathes, and the sound of my name ripples through me—soft, needful, impossible.
Too impossible.
I jolt awake, my heart hammering against my ribs like I’ve just been slammed off my board by a monster wave.
Sunlight pours through a gap in my curtains. I’m alone. Completely and utterly alone in my bed with a raging hard-on.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I scrub both hands over my face.
A dream. Of course it was a dream. Because Ainsley Reid would never show up at my door in a nightie demanding to be kissed senseless.
I lift the duvet and peer down at my enthusiastic morning situation. “Really? We’re doing this now?” I mutter. “I’m working for her for another week, you eejit. Think you can behave yourself till the job’s done, at least?”
My cock, predictably, has no response except to remain stubbornly, achingly hard.
I groan. Brilliant. Now I’m having sex dreams about her. About the woman who’s literally on the other side of this wall, probably still asleep in that bed I built for her, dark hair spread across the pillows?—
Stop. Stop right there, Walker.
But Christ, I can still feel dream-Ainsley’s mouth on mine. The weight of her in my arms. The way she said my name...
It’s not like I haven’t had the odd hook-up with a client over the years. But it’s always beenthemthat’s made the first move, not me. I’ve enough sense to knowIshouldn’t be initiating anything with someone who’s paying me to do a job.
But then, last night in her bedroom... I’d stepped closer to get that bit of packaging from her hair, and a pulse of want hit me, clear and unmistakable. I wasthis closeto?—
“Get a grip,” I mutter. “You can manage one more week without trying to snog her on that brand-new bed.”
