“The Belgian White’s good, thanks.” My eyes are trained on her ass, the fabric of her sleep shorts no longer loose-fitting but pulled taut, outlining her curvy ass, my fingers twitching in remembrance of how it felt in my hands.
Closing the fridge, pulling the top off the beer with the magnetized opener on the side of my fridge, Noelle turns, not realizing I’m standing so close to her. Halting abruptly, causing the beer to slosh over the lip of the bottle, it spills onto my shirt, dampening the center, dripping down over the soft, cotton fabric.
“Shit! Sorry!” Setting the bottle on the counter, she rushes to grab a nearby dish towel, attempting to blot the mess. Before she turns back, I’m in the process of pulling my shirt off, fingers gripping the back collar, my head momentarily hidden. When I hear her gasp, I know she’s turned around. I can’t stop the rush of pleasure it gives me to know that a flash of my chest and abs caused such a reaction.
As soon as the shirt’s off, I ball it up in my fist, and she immediately begins to pat my chest and stomach with the dish towel.
“Noelle.”
She doesn’t look up. “Yes?” She merely continues her attempts at drying me off.
My fingers halt her movement, wrapping around her wrist to stop her. Her eyes fly up to meet mine and whatever she sees gives her pause.
“Don’t lie. You did that on purpose, didn’t you? Just to get me out of my shirt.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Noelle
Huffing out a breath, I can’t resist rolling my eyes at his audacity. “You wish—” My words are cut off the moment he tugs me closer, eliminating the gap between us, our bodies pressed flush against one another.
His eyes are locked on mine as he whispers, “Wishes only get you so far.” Foster’s hand swiftly slides around the back of my head, his mouth crashing down on mine as his lips take full control of my mouth.
He takes advantage of my surprised gasp, deepening the kiss, turning my gasp into a moan. His tongue slides inside, flicking my own teasingly, and I hear myself make a sound I’d never before made.
A whimper. Foster Kavanaugh actually made me whimper. What is it with this man’s power over me?
He begins toying with my bottom lip, giving it the slightest tug with his teeth, backing me up against the kitchen counter, instantly giving me a feeling of déjà vu.
“Did you just whimper, Davis?” His tone holds a tinge of amusement, and I barely resist the urge to shove him. I resist only because shoving him would mean he wouldn’t be able to continue with his kisses, his tongue darting out to taste my skin as he works his way down the column of my neck.
“We can’t do this,” I say breathlessly, attempting to be the sound of reason.
Attempting being the key word, here.
“We’re not doing anything. Just a friendly conversation between friends,” he mutters, in between kisses and nibbles along my neck before he works his way back up to take my earlobe between his teeth and gently suck on it.
“But the conversation—” I break off just as the tip of his tongue slides along the inner shell of my ear, my breathing becoming even more harsh. “It’s happening while we’re—”
“Communicating with our bodies.”
How in the hell does he sound so composed right now? When I feel like my entire body’s been lit up like a raging inferno?
Ever the one to try and maintain reason and stay on the up-and-up, I try again. “But I thought we agreed this wasn’t smart.”
“I think we can be smart about this.” He presses his hardness right where I want him most—directly in the apex of my thighs and there’s no way I can hold back my groan. “We can be very smart about it.”
Somehow I think our definitions of “smart” differ right now. Greatly. So what do I do? I grasp at the first thing that comes to mind.
“But we’re missing the movie.”
One of his large hands brushes over top my breast, his thumb catching on my now hardening nipple. “It’s on Blu-ray. We can always watch it again later.”
Damn it. That’s it. I’m out of excuses. That doesn’t mean, however, that I can’t try and lay down some serious ground rules.
Raising my hands to grip his forearms, I moan at the feel of them beneath my hands—the cords of his muscles so thick and strong, “Seriously, Kavanaugh. I am not okay with you treating me differently at work.”
He leans back enough to look me directly in the eyes just as his thumb brushes back and forth over my nipple in agonizingly slow strokes. It takes every ounce of restraint not to melt into a puddle at his feet. “Understood.” There’s a pause. “Is that all?”
Hell if I know. “Ye—”