But now she’s staring at him, and he’s staring at her.
His fingers spread wide across her back, and it’s ridiculous that this is enough to bring her nipples to tight, tingling awareness. The rise of his chest slows to the particular speed that says he’s not just breathing, butbreathing her in.His skin gives off a waft of the dig—plaster, coffee, earth. Underneath that, he smells like warm skin and the lemon and vetiver shampoo she guiltily sniffed when he forgot it in the shower one time. She doesn’t even know what vetiver is, but it must be the green, grassy scent that’s dragging a hot, fluttering pulse from between her legs.
She feels as hungry as he looks. She feels like she could—
“Okay, dumb-fucks!” The pissed-off shout echoes through the canyon.
Ripley’s abs spasm in surprise. Smithson’s thighs tense beneath her heels; his hand clutches her ass convulsively.
“Whoever decided it was a good idea to bone on top of the bones—and no, you’re very much not the first people to think of it—you have ten seconds to get your asses in your pants: Ten. Nine.”
“Let go,” Ripley hisses, pushing away from his chest.
“Stop struggling,” he grits out, holding her upright until her feet stop scrabbling at the ground.
At the top of the stairs, Cara stands with one hand over her eyes, the other propped on her hip. “Eight. Seven. Six. No one better have done the dirty literally on top of a specimen. I promise you I will bill your parents for the damage. Five. Four. Three.”
“Cara. It’s me.”
Cara peeks through her fingers. “Oh. Ha. No wonder I didn’t recognize the orgasmic screaming.”
Smithson’s eyes widen.
“Cara,” Ripley says through clenched teeth. Her relationship dry spell is none of Smithson’s business.
The younger woman shrugs. “A person might wonder what you’re doing down here practicing sex sounds at this time of day.”
“It’s my fault,” Smithson volunteers.
“It does require two people, typically,” Cara agrees.
“Cara!” Ripley shouts, mortified. “We got new funding. Courtesy of Smithson.”
Cara blinks. “Well, fuck a duck. I’d say that calls for an orgasm or two.”
“Cara.”
“Shots! I meantorgasmsas inshots! Tonight, at Alphabet.” She disappears beyond the lip of the canyon with a scream of “Oh God! Yes, yes,yes!”
Ripley takes a cleansing breath. Her face is so hot, she needs a cold shower.
Adams, you liar. That’s not why you need the shower.
She retrieves his notebook from the ground and hands it back. “I can’t believe you found a sponsor in the middle of the night, on a weekend, in the summer. Did you have to sell your firstborn? Aspot in your lab? Your soul?” She cringes at how wooden the joke sounds.
“Perhaps a small piece of the last.” He holds his body stiffly, his cheeks still dashed with high color.
“Who’s our new sugar daddy?”
At this, he nudges his glasses upward and suppresses a smile so satisfied, you’d think he’d written the check himself.
“An anonymous sponsor. They’ll finance the rest of the season in exchange for first refusal on the purchase of any specimens. Depending on the value of your find, they’re requesting up to six months to pull the funding together.”
“Okay. Yes. We can do that.” It’s not unprecedented. The Field Museum needed multiple sponsors when they bought Sue the Tyrannosaurus.
“They also want the fossil to be prepared and studied at a mutually agreed-upon research facility. You’ll be first author on any publications.”
Ripley would rather not let Beauty out of her hands before a firm sale, but if she’s not doing the prep work, she could spend the winter with her dad. Get a job that would pay for a nicer place while she’s waiting for the money to buy his forever house.
