“That good, eh?” I say.
His eyes darken.
“All cleared.” He starts toward me.
Not walking.
Stalking.
Each step sends a thrill skittering up my spine.
“We have the house to ourselves.” My voice catches.
His gaze drops to my mouth. “So…”
“So…”
He closes the distance, palms bracing on the table as he leans in, caging me with his body.
“Where do you want to do this?” he asks, and his tone is pure sin.
My heart misses at least three beats.
But I don’t have to think about my answer. I’ve been thinking about this for nearlySix. Whole. Months.
“Our bed.” And before you say that’s lame or unimaginative, let me point out that I’m not seventeen anymore. And well… beds work really well for what I’m going to let this man do to me.
He arches a brow. “Not the kitchen table?”
I smirk. “Tempting. But let’s be smart. Soft. Cushiony. No need to rush…”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Practical. I like it when you're practical.”
“You like it when I beg,” I say, tilting my head just slightly.
His breath hitches. That one little sound makes me ache.
I duck under his arm, a flash of movement, and saunter past him.
But I don’t just walk. I sway.
“You coming?” I toss over my shoulder.
“Oh, I’m coming,” he says, voice already darkening.
Then I bolt.
Laughing, running, tugging my shirt over my head as I go, tossing it somewhere down the hall.
I am barely aware that he’s whipped his shirt off too.
Kicked off his shoes.
When I pretend to close the door on him, Beckett growls. “Oh, hell no?—”
He pushes past me, catches the waistband of my skirt, and then we both fall onto our bed in a tangle.
Breathless.
