Window Shopping(28)

Surprise leaps in my ribcage and pops right out of my mouth. “What?”

“You decorate your own office, don’t you?”

Wow. I can hear my own heartbeat. “How did you know that?”

“I…don’t know.” Her expression proves she’s puzzled. “When you carried me to your office the other night, I just knew. You’re so tidy and tucked in, but I think…”

“What?”

God help me, there’s a pink flush creeping up her neck. Pinker than the frosting on the strawberry shortcake donut. “I think you like to get messy sometimes.” She jolts a little, as though caught off-guard by the sensuality in her tone, sitting up straighter in the seat. “I mean, I bet you don’t plan out your Christmas tree decorating strategy.”

There’s no way she realizes how rare it is for someone to see into me like this. Does she get right to the heart of everyone or is it just me? I really don’t like the idea of her looking this deep with anyone else. I want that insightfulness all to myself. Jesus, I’m jealous of the possibility of her giving that gift to someone else who may or may not even exist. What is this girl doing to me? Is it possible she could appreciate my lighter and coarser sides?

“That’s exactly right,” I say, trying to keep my tone even when I’d like to drag her beneath me on this seat and feel the rasp of those tights on my hips. “Christmas should be a little messy.”

Her still-pink cheek twitches. “You manage the wrong department store for messy.”

I point at the establishment in question. “That’s for other people. Not me.”

“You don’t want your family store to reflect you in any way?”

“Maybe it already does. Tidy and tucked in on the surface. Messy behind the scenes.” The window is fogging up behind her and it takes me a few beats to realize why. We’re both starting to breathe harder. I know damn well I can’t just pluck her off that seat and sit her in my lap. Can’t slide my hand up the inside of her sweater or let her feel my hard-on against her ass. But I meant what I said last night. About being a rule follower. About making sure Stella wants me—authentically—and not because of gratitude. Or obligation. Or pressure because I’m her boss. The man who overlooked her prison record. I’m trying so hard not to lay a finger on her until I’m positive, but God, it’s getting more difficult by the second.

We’re in the back of this car, alone, it’s half dark outside and she’s in those dang soft-looking tights, looking at me with heavy eyelids, her tits rising and falling, ripe fruit asking to be stroked and sucked. One would think I didn’t churn one out in the shower this morning for all the blood rushing to my cock. Making it thicken and rise.

On top of it all, her mouth would taste like marshmallows and chocolate.

Who knew God would forsake me a week before Christmas?

“Stella…”

“Love contract. Paperwork. I know.” She leans forward. Toward me. Scoots a little closer on the seat. As if in a trance, she reaches out and traces the line of buttons down my white dress shirt, stopping an inch from my belt buckle. She draws that hand away quickly, but I catch it. Without thinking. I lay it flat over my heart and she makes this half-whimper, half-gasp sound, probably because that damn organ is going a million miles an hour and there’s no pretending it isn’t. “Aiden…” she murmurs, dragging her gaze up to my mouth and leaning in. And of course I’m leaning, too, ready to meet her halfway on everything from kissing to china patterns.

When we’re an inch apart, the sides of our noses touch, her expulsion of breath bathing my lips, my hand moves of its own accord, reaching out and fisting the section of her jacket that curves into her side, pulling her toward me, my dick turning to steel when she shudders.

“Tell me you’re wearing the key chain necklace.”

“I’m wearing it,” she says, her breath hitching. “Under my clothes.”

The gold resting on her skin. Heating. Staying with her all day. God, I love knowing that. It appeases the foreign possessiveness she stirs in me. Possessiveness I should be fending off or refusing to entertain, but I can’t seem to help it. I’ve only ever had this semi-twisted feeling for her and I don’t know how to turn it off. “Tell me you go home and think of me,” I demand against her mouth.

“I go home. And I think of you.” One second ticks by. Two. “I think about that time in the elevator you told me you can be downright rough. I think about it a lot.”

A fire lights in my head, my loins. She’s squirming on the seat and it’s painful to know what that means. What her body is communicating. If I laid her down on this leather seat and dropped my hips down, punched them a little and rocked some more, she’d moan. We’d wet up the seam of her tights in a matter of seconds. I know it better than I know how to fashion this bow tie around my neck. Even though we’ve never been physical. “Is that what…” I stop myself from asking what I want to know. This is not the time, place or circumstance.

“What?” She moves closer, her hip pressing against the outside of my thigh and now she’s got a hold of my jacket lapel, gripping it tight. How long have we been on the verge of kissing? It’s like some unique brand of torture foreplay crafted by the two of us. If our tongues touched right now, I swear to Christ I’d come. “Ask me.”