Page 79 of Under Arthur’s Protection

The water started bubbling, so I dropped the pasta in. “Maybe it’s several researchers linked in some way? Some fraternity or a past job?”

“That’s possible.” Her head rolled forward, and my stomach sank. She couldn’t give up this easily. No more tears tonight. “I’m missing something.”

“You’re running on fumes, Gwen. You probably need food.”

She smiled, and my fuck, but my heart flipped end over end at the sight. “Probably.”

“I don’t have any crusty bread to test with, but—” I pulled out a fresh spoon and returned to the sauce. “Why don’t you taste this and let me know if it needs anything?”

“I’d love to.” She got up and joined me at the stove.

I should have waited the five seconds it took, handed her the spoon, and stepped away. Instead, I dipped the spoon, made sure I caught one of the olives, and blew on it as she walked. I held it out for her, my free hand under the spoon to catch any drips.

She leaned in, and her lips closed around it.

You should have maintained your distance.

Her eyes closed. She straightened, ran her tongue across her lower lip, and let out a sigh that went straight to my dick.

That sound.

That fucking sound she’d made at The Train Station, after her first bite of the triple-layer chocolate cake she’d ordered for dessert. I would cook or bake for this woman every goddamn day if she’d keep making that noise.

“It’s amazing,” she said, opening her eyes.

“It’s missing anchovies.”

She gave a half-shrug, her smile not slipping. “It’s still delicious.”

A spot of sauce clung to her chin.

“You’ve got some…” I gestured at my own chin.

She wiped at it with her fingers and missed.

“Here.” I put down the spoon and swiped my thumb across her chin. For some reason, the thumb wound up in my mouth, rather than on a dish rag.

Her eyes widened, and the tiny movement hit me as hard as the sigh. She should have gone back to the table by now. Why was she standing so close, with her face tilted up toward mine, and her eyes pinning me in place?

And why was my hand on her face? Or my fingers curving against her cheek?

She didn’t pull back. Didn’t look away. Her lips parted—the smallest change, an opening, a question—and my chest seized the same way it had the day I’d met her.

Don’t do this, Penn.

Shut up, self.

I leaned down and kissed her.

Soft. Her mouth was warm against mine, and we stood there like two kids kissing for the first time, with no idea what came next. But then her hand slid up my arm, fingers curling around my bicep. My hand found her waist. She stepped closer. Or I pulled her closer. Her other hand pressed flat against my chest, and her lips opened for me.

Stop.

I didn’t stop. I kissed her deeper, and she matched me. She made that sound again. The cake sound. And my cock whispered, ‘Told you that’s what the sound meant.’ My hand moved from her cheek into her hair, and her fingers tightened on my arm.

I’d been trying not to want this. I’d been fighting it since the restaurant, since the ferry, since the night I’d stood over her sleeping on a couch and couldn’t bring myself to wake her. Every time I’d gotten close, the voices in my head had stopped me.

It’s a job.