Her hands slide under my jacket, shoving it off my shoulders with ruthless efficiency. It hits the floor somewhere behind me. I do not care. My hands are on her waist now, then her hips, then the solid, gorgeous line of her back as I kiss her deeper and she arches into me as if she has been waiting all week to find out whether I am as much trouble as I look.
I am.
I am going to be.
For her, I am prepared to be a public menace.
She breaks away first, breathing hard, eyes dark and fierce.
“Shirt off,” she says.
The words are not a request.
They are an instruction.
And because I have spent nearly two weeks doing what Pippa Hart tells me to do, my hands actually move.
One inch.
Then I stop.
Her eyes narrow.
“What?”
I catch her wrists gently, not pinning them, just holding them between us because if she touches me again right now, I may come in my trousers and I have plans that deserve more dignity than that.
“No,” I say.
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“No?”
“No, no, no.”
That gets her attention.
My voice drops before I can make it behave.
“At the station, you’re in charge.”
Her lips part.
I step closer, guiding her hands down slowly, deliberately, until they are against my chest but still under mine.
“Here,” I say, “I’m in charge.”
A breath leaves her.
Not much.
Enough.
Her eyes flash, challenging and turned on and more dangerous than any call-out I have been allowed within fifty metres of.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
