When I reach her, she stands up. "You're like a giant trying to fit into this room," she says. I'm not sure if that's an offhanded remark or a subtle hint to get the hell out.
"It's not that small." I stand just inside the door, inches away from her, closing it behind me. If she wanted to, she could back up – this room isn't that tiny – but she doesn't. She stands there, her face upturned, looking at me. I'm close enough to breathe her in. Her perfume makes my cock twitch immediately, like I've developed some kind of reflex reaction to her scent.
"Why'd you come back here?" she asks softly.
"Why did you wear a skirt?" I ask, my voice low.
"I don't know."
"Liar." I reach down to the hem of her skirt, my fingers trailing up the side of her thigh, raising the fabric. "What did you want me to do with this skirt?"
"You didn't even know my last name, Killian." Her voice cracks but her eyes betray her lust for me. The rest of her fear – that we don't know anything about each other – is unspoken.
"I do now."
When she covers my palm with hers, she makes no move to push my hand away, or to slide it farther up her leg. The gesture doesn't feel sexual at all. It feels nice, and that catches me off-guard. Which is probably why I say what I say next.
"I'm the oldest in my family," I tell her. "I have three brothers – Elias and Silas, twins and Luke. I'm tightest with Luke."
"Why are you telling me this?" she whispers, her brow furrowed.
"Because you know nothing about me." I move my hand, hers still on top of mine, higher up her leg until I pause with my fingers near the crease of her thigh. Her eyes search my face, and even though I don't know what she's thinking, I plow ahead anyway. "I like classic rock, can't stand Brussels sprouts, drink far too much coffee and eat too much steak to be good for me, and on Sundays I do the crossword in the paper. Badly."
"How long?" she asks. The question comes from out of the blue, yet I know exactly what she's talking about. She's asking how long it's been since I've been with someone.
"A year." My eyes don't leave hers.
She runs her tongue over her lower lip, and I want to kiss her but I don't. I want her to want me. I want her to want me so badly she squirms.
"Married?"
I raise my eyebrows. "Are you really asking me if I'd be here in this office as a married man with my hand where it is right now?"
Her cheeks turn pink. "I meant ever."
"No."
"Clean?" she asks.
"I was tested a year ago. You?" She nods as I slide my hand closer to her *, my fingertips just brushing her cotton panties, but the look that crosses her face makes me pause. “You have a look. What do you want to ask?”
She exhales heavily. “Have you been to prison?”
“You’re fucking joking, right?”
“I overheard these two gossipy old women in front of the store the other day, and –"
My lust is in grave danger of turning to irritation. I pause with my fingers where they are, tips brushing her panties. I can feel her wetness through the cotton fabric, and I know she wants me. It’s all I can do not to tear them off of her right now. “You’re in this tiny back room office with me, all alone, with my fingers between your legs, and you’re asking if I’ve been to prison? That might be something you want to consider thinking about before you’re alone with someone, don’t you think?”
“I realize it’s not the most opportune time to ask. And I don’t think you have, obviously. I didn’t run a background check on you because you weren’t an employee, not really anyway, and you’re here in my store, and you’ve met my kid, and you’re about to be between my legs. Not your fingers, I mean, but your - you know and. . . " She clamps her mouth shut, stopping the torrent of words.
Her nervousness is somehow endearing. “I haven’t been to prison, Lily.” I don’t take my eyes off of hers as I press my fingertips firmly against her damp panties. She lets out a long exhale, a sigh that makes me want to never stop touching her. “I’m not an axe murderer or a drug dealer. I don’t hit women, or have some kind of weird fetish that I’m going to spring on you, although I think I might be starting to develop one.”
“Oh?” She squirms, her hand covering mine, holding my fingertips where they are. “What’s that?”
“I might have a thing for owners of bakeries-slash-coffee shops.”
A smile plays at the edges of her lips. “Really?”
“Who don’t wear panties.” I pause for a beat. “Too bad you wore panties.”
“I couldn’t go commando here,” she whispers.
“I asked you not to wear them, and you didn’t listen,” I tease. I slip my fingers underneath the edge of her panties and down farther until I reach her clit. Her mouth drops open just slightly, and her breath begins to quicken as I roll my fingers over her. “You’re not very good at listening.”
"I listen," she replies. "I just don't obey."
20
Lily