Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(18)

“Why not four leaves?”

“Cliché.” She peeks over her shoulder at me, in a freeze-frame that’s hot as hell.

“Are you this into Saint Patrick’s Day, or is this a nod to your Irish heritage?”

“I liked it. So I got it. Same with the roses.” She turns to face me and I shake my head in admiration.

“Good reason.”

“So…are you sure about the shirt?” She holds it over her breasts again.

Every inch of her body is so sexy I hate for her to wear anything at all. It’s a crime to cover up that porcelain skin and her perfect curves. Nevertheless…

“No. But put it on. You don’t have to stay forever, but you’re not leaving right away.”

“Oh, I’m not?” She pulls the T-shirt on. It comes to her hips and her black lace thong teases me from under the T-shirt’s frayed waistband.

Fuck me, she looks good in my clothes.

“Didn’t peg you for a snuggler.” She releases her soft curls from the neck of the shirt and drops them on her shoulders. Her bare toes cut through the thick carpeting of my bedroom rug as she comes to me.

I’m in my boxer briefs and an OSU T-shirt too, though mine’s not as butter soft as the one I loaned her.

“Silly redhead,” I tsk. “Snuggling is the best part.”

She can’t tell if I’m kidding, as evidenced by the raised, questioning eyebrow.

“Couch or bed?” I end the question by gesturing to the bed behind me. I have a fantastic bed. One of those adjustable ones that I’ve loaded up with a down comforter, Egyptian cotton sheets, and a ton of pillows. No, not for the women who accompany me from time to time. For me. I like soft things. Speaking of…I reach out and cup one of Grace’s breasts through the T-shirt.

“God, they feel even more amazing through worn fabric.” My eyes sink closed. “Is there anything your tits can’t do?”

I earn a hearty laugh, but instead of swatting me away, Grace steps closer, letting me keep my hand where it is. She tips her chin for a kiss, which I gladly give while taking another for myself. My other hand moves to her other breast and we find ourselves migrating to the bed.

“Davis,” she whispers when I reach for the inconvenient shirt.

“Yeah, Gracie?”

She lifts her arms and allows me to undress her—again.

Another kiss and we’re falling into a sea of blankets.

—

Morning comes and Grace is in my bed. She’s not wearing my T-shirt.

She’s not wearing anything.

“Coffee?” I ask before reverently kissing one of her perfect nipples.

Sun streams through the curtains and paints her in golden light.

“Or more sex. I’m open to either,” I amend.

She smiles sleepily and opens her arms. “C’mere, snuggler.”

An odd term of endearment, but I do, in fact, go there. A minute later I’m wrapped in her arms.

Not a bad morning at all.





Chapter 7


Grace


Two days after our date, I knock on Davis’s front door. He’s expecting me—I texted him. He said to “come on in” when I got there, but I feel awkward walking in, even invited. Especially after everything that happened.

Great sex. Great night. Great morning after.

It’s safe to say three “greats” is outside my normal dating zone. I’ve experienced the rarity of two out of three. More often than not, one out of three. Even then, the great morning is due to my cutting the evening date short and going home alone.

During the great morning with Davis, we drank coffee at his kitchen table. He wound one of my wilted curls around his fingers and told me again how he liked my hair that way. He offered breakfast, but I told him I had to go home. I didn’t, but breakfast was pushing my luck. I couldn’t expect great breakfast after a three-for-three.

So I went home and enjoyed a couple of days off before having to work today. Getting ready, I realized I’d be unable to legally enter McGreevy’s without my manager’s keys. I suspected they’d fallen out of my purse at Davis’s. When I texted him to ask, he confirmed they were at his place.

And now, so am I.

I wring my hands having raised a fist to knock again when the door swings open. Davis wears a dark gray suit. A bright pink tie slashes down a pale pink shirt. I rein in my excitement, but it’s not easy. He’s strong and sure standing there. Capability and strength waft off him. He’s speaking into the cellphone on his ear, and he tips his head for me to come in.

I abandon the crisp fall air for the welcoming warmth of his apartment. When I close the door, he takes my hand and starts up the short staircase leading to the living room area. It’s sunny today—and only nine A.M., but Davis is alert, as if he’s been up for several hours.

Me? I have to open soon, so I’m in a pair of (stylishly) tattered jeans and a frilly white top with a short leather jacket over top.

Davis’s shiny brown shoes climb one short flight of stairs and past a second set of stairs to his bedroom. Memories shiver down my spine. One night together was fun. Could lightning strike twice?

Beyond the stairs and behind the kitchen, two doors dot a hallway. The first one on the left is his office. It’s what you’d expect given the rest of the house. Sturdy black desk, black bookcase, spotless wood floor with a plush, patterned gray rug. A green plant by the window happily soaks up the sun’s rays.