Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(102)

I roll my eyes. “Oh, excuse me. I forgot I’m supposed to pay the family jewels their proper respect.”

Cam’s smile comes on slow and sexy. “And most of the time, woman, you do a hoora good job at showin’ your respect.”

Now it’s my turn to be insulted. “Most of the time? What exactly are you implying?”

He grins at the sour look on my face and pinches my bottom. “Now who’s got the big ego?”

“You’re rubbing off on me,” I grouse, pretending to be angry with a pout.

“Oh, I’ll rub off on you all right,” he breathes. He digs his fingers into my bottom and drags me closer against him so his hardness throbs right between my legs. When I gasp, he cuts it off with a kiss—deep, hot, and demanding.

“I’ve got a conference call in less than ten minutes.” I try to stifle a moan by biting my lip when Cam moves his mouth to my neck and starts kissing a trail down to my collarbone. It feels so good. It always feels so damn good.

He nuzzles his nose between my breasts, then oh-so-gently bites my nipple, right through the sheer nightie.

This time I fail to stifle the moan. I arch into his mouth, sucking in a breath when he palms my breast and swirls his tongue around and around my hard nipple.

“Cam.”

“Mmm.”

He’s nibbling. Oh God, he’s nibbling. “I have a call with work in—”

“I’ll be quick,” he whispers, moving that hand from my breast down to my stomach, then sliding it between my legs. He rubs the heel of his palm against me because he knows how much I love it. How that simply drives me wild.

“Let’s wait until after,” I say. Or pant, technically. “I don’t want to be quick this morning. I want to go slow. Long and slow and deep and hard and oh—”

I can’t talk anymore because Cam is now doing something with his hand that requires all my mental focus.

In the other room, my cell phone rings.

Cam groans. “Bloody hell. She’s early.”

I try to push him away, but he doesn’t budge. “Sweetie. I have to get that.”

He flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh and flings an arm over his face. I clamber off the bed, plant a quick kiss on his chest, and head for the phone, saying over my shoulder, “You’d give Mrs. Dinwiddle a run for her money in the theatrics department, honey.”

He’s still muttering under his breath about the interruption as I leave the room. I snatch my cell from the coffee table in the living room where I left it last night when Cam picked me up from the sofa, threw me over his shoulder, and carried me into the bedroom, bitching that he’d had enough of TV and needed to get his fill of me.

I’m still waiting for him to be filled, but so far it hasn’t happened.

“Joellen Bixby speaking.”

“Happy Monday, Joellen. It’s Portia. How are you?”

Her voice is warm. Over the past month and a half we’ve forged something that might actually qualify as a friendship, speaking on the phone several times a week, and not always about work. As it turns out, the ice queen has a really wicked sense of humor.

I sit down on the sofa and prop my feet on the coffee table, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows of Cam’s downtown Edinburgh flat to a panoramic view of Edinburgh Castle, the Meadows—a miniature version of Central Park—and the city center. “I’m great, Portia. How’s everything at the home office?”

“Nothing interesting to report since we last spoke, except Denny has launched into some new seasonally themed fart jokes.”

“Oh God. Valentine’s Day fart jokes? I can’t even imagine.”

Portia laughs. “Yes. Apparently farts are the screams of trapped—”

“Stop!” I say loudly, waving my free hand in the air. “I left the country to escape fart jokes—I don’t need you telling them to me over the phone!”

“I know for a fact you left the country for a different reason altogether, Joellen. And how is your Scottish baller?”

I have to laugh at the term and the innuendo in her voice. “Don’t let Ruth in HR hear you talking like that or you’ll get a black mark on your employment record. And he’s great, thanks for asking.” I sigh in contentment, dreamily twirling a lock of hair through my fingers. “He’s amazing.”

Portia says sharply, “If you’re about to tell me you need time off for a honeymoon, I’m about to tell you there are very few places on earth without Wi-Fi—”

“Nobody’s getting married! We’re not even talking about that yet!”

There’s a brief silence after my outburst, then Portia goes all practical on me. “Forgive the impropriety, but you’re almost forty. You’ve probably got about half a dozen good eggs left.”

“Whoa! We went from getting married straight to infertility! Have you been talking to my mother?”

“No,” she says, “but I think you’d be a wonderful mother. No time like the present. So how’s Beth Addison’s book coming along? I can’t wait to get that sucker to market. She’s such a fantastic writer.”

“You’re giving me whiplash here, Portia.”

“Keep up, Joellen. Just because you’re not in Manhattan any longer doesn’t mean I’ll accept any slack in your mental pace.” She pauses. “Or has all the haggis gone to your head?”