Even if the wall facing the backyard is made of glass windows and sheer curtains that offer no privacy.
But there’s no pinning.
He slides his hand into mine, taking the lead, our fingers tangling tight. He ignores all the sounds we make until we’re safely in the kitchen.
A dim light glows, but we’re all too exposed until Cash nudges a pocket door out of the wall. It glides with a low scrape,the wood whispering against wood. I didn’t even realize there were sliding doors tucked in the walls.
I grip the edge of the counter as another soft scrape echoes way too loud in the quiet.
Why does everything sound so painfully loud?
He grins at me as he struts to the butler's pantry, dividing the nook from the dining room, and slides that door shut, too. Click. Sealed in. Hidden.
He still isn’t wearing a shirt, and my gaze snags on bare skin and stays there. Broad shoulders. Defined chest. That stupid line of muscle disappearing into his waistband. Not that I’m complaining. At all.
“Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”
I don’t answer right away. I let my eyes linger. Then I shrug.
“I like the view.”
His mouth quirks. One blink, there’s space between us, and the next he’s on me. He pulls me hard against him. His hands are firm on my back, and his mouth finds mine without hesitation.
I laugh, and he catches the sound.
“You’re going to get us busted,” he breathes against my mouth.
A giggle slips out. Before he can catch it again, I duck under his arm.
His hands miss me by inches.
“Hey—” he grumbles in that low, sexy voice of his.
The sound slides down my spine like a warm finger.
I stop at the fridge and glance back just long enough to see him watching me. He leans the side of his hip on the counter and crosses his arms over his torso.
The man looks illegal—all muscle and smug confidence.
The fridge door opens with a soft hum. Cool air spills out against my flushed skin. I lean into it for a second, letting it kissmy overheated cheeks. I’d need to climb right inside to really cool down.
I study the shelves, but it takes me a second to focus.
“Bingo.” I pull out a can of whipped cream.
I grab strawberries too, because I’m not an animal. I hold them up triumphantly.
“No.” His reply is solid. “That”—he steps closer—“is not whipped cream.”
“It comes out in little decorative swirls.” I shake the can. “Easily lickable off beaters.” My gaze drifts south to the bulge in his pants.
With a low groan, he takes the can from me and tucks it back into the fridge over my shoulder. His chest brushes me when he reaches past.
He glances down at me. “We’re making it from scratch.”
“From scratch?”
He nods.
