I slowly turn toward him. “No.”
“You said you needed things.”
“Not with you.”
One blond eyebrow lifts slightly. “Why not?”
“Because.”
“Compelling argument.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Daltyn.”
“Peyton.”
“You’renotcoming into a lingerie store with me.”
“I carried you through an airport.”
“That’s different.”
“I unpacked your things.” He leans down, his warm breath feathering over my ear. “I saw your vibrator.”
I shiver before I can stop myself. The heat of his breath against my skin. His scent. His closeness. And images of me using the vibrator while he watches.
Or better yet—using the vibrator on me.
Sweet. Jesus.
This is too much.
His mouth twitches again. “I’m going in with you,” he says calmly.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It’ll be awkward.”
“For who?”
My eyes widen. “For YOU,” I hiss.
“I’ll survive.”
“That confidence feels misplaced.”
He looks entirely too amused as he guides me across the street, then opens the door for me.
Warm air, faintly scented with perfume and vanilla, wraps around us the second we step inside.
And every sales associate looks at us.
Or rather—looks at Daltyn.
Apparently, six-foot-two hockey goalies entering a lingerie store cause a public disturbance.
One brunette employee practically lights up when she sees us. “Welcome!”
