Do You Take This Man (44)

“You’d make fun of me if I said that,” he murmured, dipping his lips to my ear as he continued teasing at the button, an errant finger trailing lower over the fabric.

I smiled despite myself. “Yeah, I would.”

“Because you’re mean,” he said, dragging his nose down my neck, the light pressure tickling me as the anticipation grew.

“You wouldn’t know what to do if I was nice to you,” I said, the last few words breathy as his lips grazed the sensitive skin near my collarbone. Him touching me, teasing me out in the open, was exciting, and my breath hitched.

“I’d figure out something to do,” he said, and I felt his smile against my neck, his thumb trailing the button near my navel and his scent surrounding me.

“Like what?” My breath came quicker as he left my skin tingling with every swipe of his lips, and his fingers slid under the waistband of my pants, tracing the edge of my panties.

“I guess you’ll find out when you’re nice to me,” he murmured near my ear.

“The world may never know, then.” I tipped my head to the side, stretching my neck. “Is there anyone here?”

“Building manager,” he said, glancing down the hall. “C’mon.” He stepped back and took my hand. I missed the constant, teasing pressure of his finger against my shirt, but his hand encased mine as he led me across the open space toward the door he’d taken the photographer into.

“The loft?” I followed him up the dimly lit back stairwell. The building was refurbished industrial space, and I wondered if this used to be a foreman’s office back in the day. At the top of the stairs, the space opened up into the lofted area, looking over the ceremony space and a back room with a few chairs.

“Back here,” he said, guiding me into the small room and pushing the door closed.

I took in the small space, eyeing the worn and stained chairs. “What—”

He cut me off, his fingers curling behind my neck and his other hand at the small of my back. Our lips and tongues tangled, and I felt the anticipation from the hall return under the pressure of his insistent kiss, and I let my hands roam over his obliques to his back. Our bodies pressed close to each other, and I shimmied out of my jacket with his help, tossing it on one of the worn chairs. Apparently the banter-and-teasing portion of our night was over—and I was fine with that. Lear’s hips pressed to mine, his unmistakable arousal nudging my stomach, and I reached between us to stroke him.

“Yes,” he said, fingers curling into my hair and his kiss deepening at my touch.

I winced when he cupped my chin. The unexpected pain when he made contact with the spot where the camera had grazed me felt startling.

He froze. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry.” I brushed my fingers over the tender spot. “Just where that guy hit me. I’m fine.”

Lear’s featured shifted, his expression darkening and warring with something else. “That dick,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. Does it hurt? Let me take a look.” He cupped my chin, careful not to touch the injury, and stared intently.

“It’s fine, just tender.”

His fingertips held my face so gently, it was hard to reconcile this touch with the searing embrace from a few seconds earlier. Lear studied my face like he was inspecting a surgical field and not the minor cut with the surrounding swelling. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath, brushing a fingertip at my temple, his face still so close to mine, as close as if we’d been about to kiss, but the energy had shifted and I suddenly didn’t know how to act. His touch was reverent, gentle, and I was experiencing an overwhelming sensation of being cared for that was unfamiliar.

“I’m fine.” I shifted my gaze, avoiding his intense inspection and tipping my head away. I felt relief and loss at the same time. “I mean, he is an asshole, but I’m fine.” I strategized how to get back to where we were a few minutes before. That moment seemed to be gone, though, because Lear was still casting quick glances to the spot on my face. “What were you two getting into it over, anyway?”

“What?” He looked up abruptly, like he’d only been half listening.

I brushed my hands down the front of my shirt, smoothing the mussed fabric. “It looked like you two were going to fight before he left.”

Lear ran a hand through his hair and rocked on his heels. “Just a disagreement.”

Dammit, all I wanted was a quickie and now I was stuck in this awkward sinkhole. “About what?”

Lear assessed my expression. “I told him he needed to listen to you.”

I froze my ministrations. “Why?”

“Because he was acting unprofessionally, and I didn’t like it. The guy hit you with a camera.”

“On accident.” I did not know why I was defending Garrett Parker, douche photographer.

Lear stepped back, his expression skeptical. “He was saying inappropriate stuff, and I let him know I didn’t like it.”

My hackles went up. “I don’t need you to fight any battles for me.”

“I worked in professional sports. It’s not like I don’t know what sexual harassment looks like. I wasn’t fighting a battle for you. I told that guy I didn’t appreciate him being a dick.”

I reached for my jacket, flustered at the feelings of anger and the tinges of something softer rising in me. I didn’t like the softer. It felt too close to caring that he’d stood up for me. “I deal with ten guys just like him every week. I can handle things myself when they need handling.”