his office and laughed. “I don’t believe it.”
“What?” His face and neck warmed, and he folded his arms, leaning a shoulder against the wall behind her. Here it came—she was going to give him a hard time. He could see it in the devilish tilt of her mouth, the teasing glow in her eyes.
“You have clutter,” she teased.
He eyed the boxes of legal journals and stacks of sheet protectors holding his baseball-card collection. He was going to put them in binders, some day. “It’s just stuff I haven’t found a place for yet.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “How long have you been living here?”
“Four years.”
“It’s clutter.”
“You were a Boy Scout?” She gazed at the photo of his Eagle Scout ceremony, hanging in a grouping of college and high school pictures by the door. The startled surprise in her voice caught him unaware.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because Boy Scouts are supposed to be…fair and honest and all that jazz.” She bit her lip, devilment glinting in her eyes. “You have gray areas, McMillian.”
He didn’t move, watching as she peered into the third bedroom, which held only his treadmill and home gym.
Back on the landing, she grinned. “Told you we’d end up in the bedroom.”
Anticipation settled heavily in his groin. “I suppose you want to see mine?”
Her smile widened. “I can’t wait.”
He pointed at the slightly open door. “Be my guest.”
She pushed the door open and walked inside. He stepped to the doorway. She stood in the middle of his room, arms folded across her midriff, gaze darting about. She tilted her head toward the bed, the comforter folded back, the pillows mounded at the headboard. “Nice sheets.”
A laugh rumbled in his throat. “Egyptian cotton.”
She walked to the bed, tracing a finger along a pillow. His skin vibrated, as if she touched him instead. “They feel great. Fantastic color, too.”
“I’ll tell my decorator you approve.”
She eased that finger up her thigh to the waistband of her shorts, popped the button free. His mouth dried, his pulse kicking a notch higher. This was really happening. Celia St. John, undressing before him. A male fantasy come to life.
She slid the zipper down, let the shorts fall to the floor, stepped out of them. Standing before him in only the brief black bikini, she brushed her hair back, a naughty smile on her face. “I suppose if I were coy or shy, I wouldn’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this.”
He lounged against the doorjamb. “I don’t think either word’s in your vocabulary.”
“I’ve wanted you for a long time, McMillian.” Her hands moved up to untie the string top. She caught it with one hand before it fell away. “Thought about you. Dreamed about you. Fantasized about you.”
What man didn’t want to hear that from a woman? She let the scrap of fabric fall to the floor. He sucked in a breath, riveted to the beautiful roundness of her breasts, cinnamon nipples tight and puckered. He dragged his gaze up to hers. “Were you thinking of me when you bought the toys?”
“What do you think?” Her sultry laugh tickled his ears, resonated through him, ended in a rush of sensory stimulation.
“I sure as hell hope so.”
Her hands slid to the bikini bottoms, fingers tucking inside the waistband. “Were you thinking of me when you found them?”
“Most definitely.”
She inched the waistband down, wiggling her slim hips a little. “Too bad I didn’t bring them tonight.”
He rubbed a finger over his lips, every cell tensed with anticipation. The images of her pleasuring herself in his bed, while he rubbed oil into her skin, flared in his head. Arousal settled in a heavy weight below his belt. “Would you have put on a show for me, Cee?”
“Would that turn you on, McMillian?” The bottoms moved lower, giving him a glimpse of blonde curls between her thighs. A tiny tattoo lurked above those curls, a design in blue and black he couldn’t quite make out.
“What?” His face and neck warmed, and he folded his arms, leaning a shoulder against the wall behind her. Here it came—she was going to give him a hard time. He could see it in the devilish tilt of her mouth, the teasing glow in her eyes.
“You have clutter,” she teased.
He eyed the boxes of legal journals and stacks of sheet protectors holding his baseball-card collection. He was going to put them in binders, some day. “It’s just stuff I haven’t found a place for yet.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “How long have you been living here?”
“Four years.”
“It’s clutter.”
“You were a Boy Scout?” She gazed at the photo of his Eagle Scout ceremony, hanging in a grouping of college and high school pictures by the door. The startled surprise in her voice caught him unaware.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because Boy Scouts are supposed to be…fair and honest and all that jazz.” She bit her lip, devilment glinting in her eyes. “You have gray areas, McMillian.”
He didn’t move, watching as she peered into the third bedroom, which held only his treadmill and home gym.
Back on the landing, she grinned. “Told you we’d end up in the bedroom.”
Anticipation settled heavily in his groin. “I suppose you want to see mine?”
Her smile widened. “I can’t wait.”
He pointed at the slightly open door. “Be my guest.”
She pushed the door open and walked inside. He stepped to the doorway. She stood in the middle of his room, arms folded across her midriff, gaze darting about. She tilted her head toward the bed, the comforter folded back, the pillows mounded at the headboard. “Nice sheets.”
A laugh rumbled in his throat. “Egyptian cotton.”
She walked to the bed, tracing a finger along a pillow. His skin vibrated, as if she touched him instead. “They feel great. Fantastic color, too.”
“I’ll tell my decorator you approve.”
She eased that finger up her thigh to the waistband of her shorts, popped the button free. His mouth dried, his pulse kicking a notch higher. This was really happening. Celia St. John, undressing before him. A male fantasy come to life.
She slid the zipper down, let the shorts fall to the floor, stepped out of them. Standing before him in only the brief black bikini, she brushed her hair back, a naughty smile on her face. “I suppose if I were coy or shy, I wouldn’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this.”
He lounged against the doorjamb. “I don’t think either word’s in your vocabulary.”
“I’ve wanted you for a long time, McMillian.” Her hands moved up to untie the string top. She caught it with one hand before it fell away. “Thought about you. Dreamed about you. Fantasized about you.”
What man didn’t want to hear that from a woman? She let the scrap of fabric fall to the floor. He sucked in a breath, riveted to the beautiful roundness of her breasts, cinnamon nipples tight and puckered. He dragged his gaze up to hers. “Were you thinking of me when you bought the toys?”
“What do you think?” Her sultry laugh tickled his ears, resonated through him, ended in a rush of sensory stimulation.
“I sure as hell hope so.”
Her hands slid to the bikini bottoms, fingers tucking inside the waistband. “Were you thinking of me when you found them?”
“Most definitely.”
She inched the waistband down, wiggling her slim hips a little. “Too bad I didn’t bring them tonight.”
He rubbed a finger over his lips, every cell tensed with anticipation. The images of her pleasuring herself in his bed, while he rubbed oil into her skin, flared in his head. Arousal settled in a heavy weight below his belt. “Would you have put on a show for me, Cee?”
“Would that turn you on, McMillian?” The bottoms moved lower, giving him a glimpse of blonde curls between her thighs. A tiny tattoo lurked above those curls, a design in blue and black he couldn’t quite make out.
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