“More how you will remove it later?” I finish for him.
He doesn’t say anything more, simply holding me captive in his gaze before he finally releases me, picks up the bouquet of freesias, and makes his way into the kitchen.
Will fills the sink with water and drops the flowers in. Next, he opens the refrigerator door and inspects its contents. I wince at what he must be thinking. Other than half a bell pepper and a couple of bottles of water, it’s full of everything he loathes.
“You don’t need to say anything, by the way. I can hear your thoughts well enough from over here, and I know they’re in breach of rule number four.”
Heavy footsteps fall behind me, and then I’m over his shoulder. He cracks his palm down on my left ass cheek, and I squeal in shock and delight, giggling as he maneuvers me until I’m exactly how he wants—legs wrapped around his waist and arms looped around his neck, like a koala.
With one strong arm beneath my ass to hold me in place, Will moves about the kitchen, making me the hot chocolate I didn’t ask for, but really wanted. To him, I must weigh nothing.
“Why are you comfort eating, Drew?” Will asks, shaking a can of whipped cream.
I watch as he squirts a generous amount on top of my drink and then moves to the exact cupboard where I keep the sprinkles.
Does he remember where I store them from the one time he helped put my shopping away?
My face burns when he finishes adding sprinkles and wraps a second hand under my ass.
“You should know that I would never ever tell anyone about us or what we do. It’s our business, and you’re safe with me.”
Us?
I reach up and absent-mindedly play with his chain; the compass looks like it was stamped into an old coin, which is weathered and worn.
“Is this meaningful?” I ask, attempting to deflect the conversation.
Will’s hand wraps around the one I have on the pendant. “I’m not answering that question yet, and anyway, you still haven’t answered mine. Why are you comfort eating?”
He sets me on one of the stools at the island and slides the hot chocolate between my hands. This is another element of Will Jones I never knew existed—patience and a deep intrigue in others.
Swiping a finger through the cream, I bring it to my lips, and Will watches me the whole time.
Inappropriate satisfaction curls inside me as I become aware that I wield a level of power over him I never thought I had. He absolutely wants this finger between his lips.
“I have my reasons”—the cream slides down my throat—“none of which I’m able to share as your publicist.”
I’m back in his arms in seconds, and he marches us toward the couch, sitting down with me straddling him. We’re face-to-face, nose-to-nose, and I know if I placed a palm over his heart, I would feel it beating at a rapid pace to match mine.
“Tell me, Drew.” His voice sounds pained, desperate. “You can’t play with me and claim that you don’t want something to happen between us and then suck on this finger”—he lifts it to his lips and kisses the tip—“like you’re imagining it’s my dick.”
Heat pools in my center. If I sit in his lap much longer, I’ll no doubt leave a mark on his sweatpants.
“I need to climb off.”
Will shakes his head and sinks his fingers into my hips. “You belong right here.”
More heat between my thighs.
“If I don’t, then I’ll need to throw your pants in the washing machine before you leave.”
The satisfaction I was feeling earlier is nothing compared to the way he looks at me.
“Do I turn you on, Baby?”
“No comment.”
He doubles down, grip tightening. It feels like he’s squeezing all the air from my lungs.
