Smooth. Real smooth.
When I finally manage to get it open, I nearly fall out. Righting myself at the last minute, I adjust my small purse on my shoulder, and begin walking up the steps to my door. Get a grip, Noelle, I think to myself. Even if you did want to have sex with Foster Kavanaugh, it doesn’t mean he wants the same. Especially when he pretty much has his choice of women.
“Hey.” His voice startles me, so lost in my own thoughts I hadn’t registered the sound of his footsteps following me up the stairs. Inhaling deeply, I turn to face him, the front door at my back.
“Thanks again. Drive safe.” Before I can turn back to unlock my door, Foster steps closer—far closer than I expect—crowding me. His eyes are watchful, intense while he raises one arm up, palm splayed against the door near my head.
“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” His lips—God, those lips—are mesmerizing, his head dipping until he’s so close there’s barely a hairsbreadth separating our lips.
“Tell me.” His lips brush against mine as he speaks. “To stop.” The conflict within his tone is evident. It’s as though a part of him is begging me to stop him while the other part is hoping to God I don’t.
“Don’t,” I see the effect that one word has on him before I hastily finish with, “stop.”
His lips come crashing down on mine, while both his hands cage me in against the door. I reach out to tug him closer, eliminating the remaining distance between us. Tipping his head to the side, angling it better to deepen the kiss, the moment his tongue slides inside to touch mine, I can’t withhold my moan. My nipples instantly harden against his chest and I arch instinctively, trying to get even closer to him.
One of his hands slides down, cupping my ass and pulling me toward him as he thrusts against me. Pressing into the apex of my thighs, he allows me to feel his arousal, how hard he is for me. Shamelessly, I rock against him, growing even wetter, imagining how his cock will feel inside of me.
Foster breaks the kiss, both of us breathing heavily, my own chest heaving as we hold each other’s gaze. His expression is conflicted, like he’s warring with himself and it’s in that moment I make my decision.
It’s been well over a year for me. Over a year of taking time for myself; no relationships, no men, no sex—no nothing. And while I’m not expecting an award for all that, the truth is I hadn’t—haven’t—found anyone to make me want to break my self-imposed embargo on men.
Except for the man standing before me. Which is why I manage to swallow past the lump of nervousness in my throat and say the next words.
“Want to come in?”
There’s the briefest pause—like he’s caught between surprise and uncertainty—before his lips curve upward and the look he gives makes my heart skip a beat. Because it’s a look he’s never given me before.
Although small, it’s one of those rare, genuine smiles. The one I’ve seen him bestow upon his sister and mother, but never before on me. Leaning in with a sexy smirk, one hand cradling the side of my face, he whispers, “Is the Pope Catholic?”
“Ah, we’ve got a comedian on our hands, do we?” I whisper back.
He gives me a playful swat on the ass. “Unlock the door, woman.” His stern expression is at odds with the humor lighting up his eyes.
After unlocking the door and disarming the alarm, he ensures we’re safely inside before securing the lock on the door, once again. I slide off my wedge heels onto the doormat, spotting the package he’d brought me earlier. Picking it up, I walk down the hall to set my keys and purse on the kitchen counter before tearing open the package. “What is this, by the way?”
When he comes up behind me, his voice is gravelly and deep. “Just some replacement items.”
What spills out of the package isn’t at all what I expect. Because, holy crap. Foster Kavanaugh had apparently taken it upon himself to buy me replacements for the bras, panties, and other lingerie Brad had destroyed. And they are exquisite; far nicer than anything I could ever afford. Or would purchase and still be able to sleep at night, knowing how much money I’d spent on something so frivolous.
“Foster,” I breathe out in part wonder and awe. “I can’t accept this. It’s too much.” Turning to stare at him, I’m stunned he did this for me.
“It’s not too much. It’s beautiful.” His eyes dart away and he runs a hand over his close-cropped hair as if nervous, before finishing with, “like you.”
He just had to go and say that. Damn it. No wonder he gets all kinds of crazy action with the ladies. Which spurs on my next question.
Head tipped to the side, I say, “Do you do this for all of the women you sleep with?”