Full Package(37)

The apartment smells like my favorite food ever, the one I missed most in Africa—pizza pie with cheese and mushrooms.

An ’80s tune, “Tempted” by Squeeze, is playing. If I stop to think about it, the lyrics are wildly wrong. It’s technically a song about straying. But I’m convinced this song became famous because all you hear in this tune is the longing, the want, the hunger for another person. That’s the thing about song lyrics. You take the parts that speak to you.

Temptation talks loud and clear to me.

Temptation shakes her butt to the beat.

Lord help me.

This.

When the door falls shut behind me with a loud snap, Josie startles and swivels around. She brings her hand to her chest. “Oh God, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” I say, dropping my keys on the table by the door.

She grabs her phone from the counter and lowers the volume. “Hey,” she says, setting the cell down as I enter the tiny kitchen. “I made you a—”

I crush her mouth to mine before she can say “pizza.” A sexy ohh escapes her lips, and then she gives me all I want.

Her.

She loops her hands around my neck, her fingers traveling up to my hair, playing with the ends. Lust charges down my spine. I sweep my lips across hers, our mouths connecting as we find the rhythm that makes this kiss its own kind of sexy song. I can’t break it down to the melody or the lyrics, the notes or the chords. All I know is, this kiss has all the makings of a number-one hit. It has that certain something. That indefinable quality that hooks you right in the heart, hits you hard in the chest and sends the heat levels to incendiary.

Backing her up a few inches to the counter, I slam my body against hers. A sharp, sexy gasp falls from her lips as I break the kiss.

“Hey you,” I whisper hungrily.

“Nice to see you, too,” she says, then pulls me back to her, our lips crashing together once more. My hands dive into her hair, and I rip the chopstick out, letting those soft brown strands spill over my fingers as the wooden stick clatters to the floor.

As I kiss her, my mind goes hazy, and I shove aside all thoughts of anything but lust and want and heat. Clasping her face in my hands, I kiss her even harder, even hungrier, until I can’t take just kissing her. I have to have more of her.

All of her.

When I break the kiss, she’s panting. Her hair is a wild mess. Her lips are swollen and red, almost bruised. Her green eyes shine with desire. She’s never looked hotter than she does right now. My eyes roam down her body. Her apron is light blue, with a cherry pattern on it. She wears a skirt under it, and the dark red material lands right above her knees.

Underneath the apron is some kind of strappy little white tank top. Brushing my hands along her arms, I watch her shiver.

“This apron . . .” I say, fingering the hem.

“Yeah?”

My hands dart up to her chest, then around her neck where it ties. But I don’t undo the knot. “There’s something I’m curious about.”

“What is it?”

As I fiddle playfully with the straps, I meet her eyes. “I can’t stop wondering how you’d look in just this apron on top.”

Her lips curve up in a naughty grin, and she reaches behind her. The little ping of a clasp coming undone lands on my ears, and I groan. She’s freeing her breasts from their confines. My body hums with anticipation. I lick my lips as I watch every move she makes. Now her hands slide up to her shoulders, and she performs something that looks a lot like circus acrobatics to me, but it’s one of those things girls can do blindfolded. She tugs one slim bra strap down her right arm and off. The other slides down her left arm. Then she slips her hands under her apron again and tells me to close my eyes. Dutifully, I oblige.

Fifteen seconds later, she says, “Open them.”

When I do, the white tank is pooled on the floor, and she holds up a lacy white bra, letting it dangle from her index finger. The apron top still covers her. “Is this what you wanted?”

“That is exactly what I wanted.”

I take the bra, toss it into the other room, and grab her hips. I lift her up on the counter and drink in the view.

Skirt, heels, and apron. Her breasts are barely covered, and for a man obsessed with breasts, you’d think I’d be fondling them right now. But I’m also not twelve. I want to savor the view. I want to admire my girl. I want to experience every fucking glorious second of this night, imprint it all on my brain, feed every memory cell I have.

I reach around her neck and tug at the apron tie. Her breath catches, and she trembles. A shudder runs through her body.

It gives me pause. “You okay?” I ask, because I can’t not. “Are you cold?”

“No, I’m good. Just very, very good,” she says, tipping up her chin. Her eyes meet mine, and in a flash I see so much vulnerability, so much longing in them, it nearly knocks me to my knees. It almost makes me want to spill my whole heart to her, to tell her what I realized at Max’s garage. But if there’s a recipe for killing a friendship, that’s it, right there. When you add love to the mix—when you openly declare it—you might as well say good-bye to the friendship. We can be friends and we can have benefits, but anything more is playing with fire. I know this, and she surely does, too.

Tonight, we’re lovers.

That’s what I zone in on as I undo the apron tie.