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She swallowed thickly. “I-I’m busy.”
“You’re gonna be getting busy,” he said with a smile. “I need to know what bed you’re gonna be in, though. I’m bringing my A game tonight.”
“Don’t you think—?”
“About you underneath me? Every other minute. Now answer me, or else I’ll throw you on the nearest desk.”
Heat flared on her cheeks. He noticed.
“Oh, really?” He grinned—wicked and wonderful.
“No, that’s not…um. The bed is fine.” What the hell? It was like her vocal cords were in cahoots with her hormones. Not a single part of her body preferred the bed over the desk.
“Resistance is futile,” he told her.
“No shit,” she grumbled.
“Come on, McIntire.” He let out a deep chuckle. “Live a little.”
“I did. In the copy room earlier.”
“Live a little more.” He was so damned gorgeous that she couldn’t help smiling back. “My desk or yours?”
“My desk is covered with—eep!”
He didn’t let her finish, scooping her into his arms and carrying her into his office. He kicked the door closed. Her arms were looped around his neck, her eyes on his desk, which was littered with plans and paperwork, and other office accoutrements.
“Plan B,” he decided and then carried her to the drafting table. Its wide surface was devoid of clutter, and it appeared sturdy enough to hold them.
She locked eyes with him and they smiled at each other like dopes. Something about him made her…happy. Just plain happy. It was as simple and as complicated as that.
“Did you set the alarm?” she asked as he plopped her onto the table. She didn’t like to break the rules…typically. She didn’t have some weird rush from being naughty or anything.
“Why? Are you worried we’ll be caught?” His smile suggested he wouldn’t mind that at all.
“If Clive or Joanie forgets something and tries to come back…”
When she didn’t finish her sentence, he said, “Yes?”
“You really don’t care if they know, do you?”
“I care about one thing.”
She braced for what he might say next—especially if it was warm or tender. Or anything that would hit her in the vicinity of her heart.
Then his smile clicked into place as he said, “Making you come.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That was not what he cared about. Okay, it was what he cared about. He cared a lot about making her come. But he cared about something else.
Her.
He cared about her enough that he was going to agree to keep things quiet even though he didn’t like lying to his friends. But not for much longer. And he needed to let her know that. She sat, legs draped over the edge of the table, hair rolling over her shoulders, her white shirt doing nothing to hide the soft press of her nipples…
He’d tell her later. After desk sex.
“Don’t rip my buttons this time. I have to drive home.”
