‘Homemade ones, I hope.’
‘Cheeky monkey!’ June exclaims. ‘Do I look the type to settle for shop bought?’
As I enter the kitchen, a slight thrill runs down my spine at the sound of Rory’s footsteps. I might’ve guessed he wouldn’t be content to wait.
‘I still think we should hit up the hotel bar before the room. After scones, of course.’
‘Why?’ I ask over my shoulder. ‘So you can get me drunk and wheedle out all my secrets?’
‘I was thinking more along the lines of getting you drunk enough to wheedle you out of your knickers. Drunk enough to take advantage of.’ In the tiny white kitchen, he steps closer, pulling the back of my hips into him. ‘But sober enough to enjoy it.’
‘Or we could just go to work. You know, seeing as it’s a work day and all.’ I scoot a little ways away, the sensation of him pressed up against me scrambling my brain. ‘Besides, I don’t do day drunk well.’
This is a complete lie; I do day drunk like a champ. Who the hell doesn’t?
Rory leans back against the opposite counter top and, as I glance over my shoulder while pulling out cups and tea, something snags my gaze. It’s not so much the motion of him sliding his hands into his pockets that has me clutching a mug to my chest; it’s more what the action highlights. My heart beats loudly, just once—ba-dunk—because I can see the outline of things I shouldn’t and find it hard—very? Semi?—to drag my gaze away.
‘D—do you always wear jeans to work?’ He definitely should; he looks so good in them, but it’s a pathetic excuse of a diversion. ‘Seeing as how you’re really a mogul and all.’ A thoroughly pathetic excuse, exposed by the tone of his response.
‘Titch, you might want to stop looking at me like that.’ Holy rumbling sexy tones.
I reach out, flipping the switch on the kettle before turning and mirroring his stance against the opposite countertop, though I do none of this before schooling my expression.
‘Look at you like what?’
‘Like you’re starving and you’ve just got your eye on a juicy steak.’
‘Snake—st—steak?’ Freudian fucking slip much? ‘I—I didn’t realise I was looking at you like anything. Y—you must be imagining things.’
‘Oh, I am,’ he says, inclining his head, leaving me under no illusion exactlywhathe’s imagining. ‘And so are you. Do you think I don’t know what you’re thinking when you look at me like that?’
The silence stretches out as my cheeks begin to heat; it’s no fun being called out, and it’s not like I can help my reaction when I look at him—especially catching sight of his trouser snake.Eurgh, did I really just think that?I’m going to need to wear dark glasses indoors at this rate.
‘I don’t see how you could,’ I answer, feeling my gaze slide down his chest. Again.
Rory’s shoulders begin to shake, his eyes drifting closed as he tilts back his head, laughing softly.
‘Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not thinking about you.’ Nope, totally not thinking about what would happen if I reached out. With my tongue. While sliding my hand down...
‘So, you’re not looking at my junk right now.’Not fair, universe. Play nice!
‘Stop!’ The words sound strangled, and I clap my hands over my eyes. I’m not sure if this is for his benefit or mine. My hands are moved suddenly as Rory appears in front of me, lifting them away and placing both palms flat against his pecs. His silver-grey gaze dares me as he slides our hands downwards, skimming his rock hard abs. Skimming further before coming to rest flush with his crotch.
‘Thirty minutes,’ he rasps, flexing into me.
That’s not going to be long enough.‘What?’ I tilt my head and I swear I’m not doing the fluttery lash thing on purpose.
‘Thirty minutes. A scone. Then we’re finding a bed and I’m fucking you senseless all afternoon.’
I open my mouth to speak—probably to say yes please—when a shrill voice pierces the tiny space.
‘What in the name of all that’s holy is going on in here?’
Shocked, my initial reaction is one of guilt as I try to pull back my hands. Try being the operative word, as they are clamped tight by Rory’s.
‘Can I help you, hen?’ He turns his head, quirking a brow in the direction of Melody, his tone one of casual inconsequence. ‘Only, we’re having a moment.’
‘Having a mo—having a moment! Have you no decency?’
