“Oh yeah?” I attempt to mirror his casualness, but I’m standing next to him, not reclined in a chair, so it’s a little harder for me to come across as relaxed.
“Mmm … yeah. I had plans to do things to a certain someone.” His tongue slides along his bottom lip at the same time his thumb teases the crotch of my skort.
“I have work.” I take a cautious sip of my coffee, attempting to mask the slight strain in my voice.
Step back!
“I think this is a bad idea,” I say.
Step back!
I have no willpower. What is wrong with me?
“Coffee is never a bad idea.” His thumb moves to the exact part of my body I felt certain he couldn’t find last night—until he did find it, manipulated it, and destroyed me in the process.
Here I am … refusing to step away because I welcome his destruction.
“We live in the same building. As a rule, I try to avoid setting up awkward situations with people I see on the regular. Like co-workers and neighbors.”
“Awkward situations?”
I sip my coffee then nod as he sits up (hand still on my leg like it’s stuck) and sets his cup on the desk. Then he takes my coffee and places it next to his before his other hand claims a matching position on my other thigh, pulling me between his spread legs.
“It’s uh…” my fingers do their own thing, deeming it necessary to mess with his slightly damp, wavy hair “…bad news when things end and we have to pretend they never happened, which is impossible to do. I have to watch you parade women in and out of your apartment, and you have to witness me coming home early in the morning, which means you’ll know I spent the night at someone’s place.”
Pressing his lips together, gaze locked to mine, he nods slowly. “So you do stay the night … just not at my place.”
I roll my eyes. “I live in the building.”
“Sorry … did I not hear you say goodbye? Did I miss the note you left on the nightstand? We haven’t shared phone numbers, so I know you didn’t text me. You skittered out of my place in record time. Were you even fully dressed when you left?”
“Pfft … of course I was dressed.”
His gaze washes over my face, pausing on my cheeks. “Liar. You blush when you’re turned on and you blush when you lie. So either you’re turned on or lying?”
Both.
I don’t want to admit to either one.
“I didn’t want to deal with what came next.”
“Next, I planned on letting you read to me while I let my tongue explore …”
I jump when his thumb shows me where he planned on letting his tongue explore. A nervous laugh vibrates my chest. His hands slide down a few inches. One followed by the other, he lifts my legs up to straddle his lap. My hands drop to his shoulders as his hands plant on my waist.
“Good morning, Anna Black.” He grins a second before kissing me. It’s different. It’s patient like he doesn’t need to shove me up against the wall and squeeze out one more quickie. It’s as if he knows I will willingly return for more.
I guess the guy who kisses like the sun sliding up the east horizon, taking my breath away, is worthy of such confidence. I mean … the sun owns the sky, deciding when to hide behind a thin layer of clouds and when to scorch the Earth.
“Jesus …” I pull back, breathless, with my forehead propped against his and my fists clenching his shirt. “You can kiss.”
“Yes. I can, but now I have work to do.” He lifts me off his lap and smacks my ass. “Thanks for the coffee.” He cups it with one hand like making a toast before taking a swig and opening his laptop.
I retreat a step, more like stumble because that kiss has left me dizzy. “You’re arrogant.” I snatch my coffee.
Eric taps a few keys, keeping his gaze on the computer screen in spite of his lips curling a fraction. “Confident.”
“Dismissive.” I frown.
“Busy.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He types away.
“A tease.” I lift my bag onto my shoulder.
“Seductive. Go to work. Enjoy your freedom. When you’re restrained to my bed tomorrow morning, you’re going to wish you made better use of your time today.”
I try really hard to infuse confidence into my laugh, my posture, my wavering smile. “I might be restrained to a bed tomorrow morning, but it won’t be yours.” Forcing a tight smile, I exit with my chin up and extra sway to my hips as I leave his office.
Restrained to his bed? Um … no. Not happening. He watches too much porn.
Chapter Seven
Operation Avoid Eric Fucking Steinmann goes well for a solid ten days after coffee and the most incredible kiss in his office. Why am I avoiding him?
Good question.
Things we can’t resist are usually not good for us. Who has no willpower to avoid rainbow chard, three-mile jogs, and pap smears?
Eric is fried ice cream with extra chocolate and a whole jar of maraschino cherries on the first day of my period and a day I need to fit into a tight bridesmaid’s dress.
I notice his bike in the rack when I get home late from work, so I keep a watchful eye, peeking around the corner to the stairs, tiptoeing up them, peering through the glass part of the door before easing it open, and using stealth mode to move past his door toward my loft.
“Anna Black.”
Dammit!
His door makes no noise, not the turn of the handle or a single creak of the hinges.
After a hearty gulp, I turn ninety degrees to see him, but not the full one-eighty like I have any intention of not continuing to my door. “Hey. What’s up?”
He scratches his scruffy jaw. It’s thicker scruff than the last time I saw him. I guess ten days with his overabundance of testosterone equals bad news for my dry panties.
Eric rests his shoulder against the doorframe, propping the door open with his other shoulder. I instruct my eyes to stay above his nose, but they have issues with simple directions. Of course he has to have on a white tank and ripped black jeans, no shoes or socks.
“Can you step inside here for a second?”
Gulp.
“No.” I shake my head.
“No?” He chuckles. “Why not?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Me?” He jabs a finger into his chest. “What have I done to lose your trust? Or get the ten-day ghosting for that matter?”
“Nothing. I mean … I’ve been busy. Working crazy hours.”
“Not having coffee?”
“We have a Keurig. Just … saving time and money.” I ball my hands like I do at the grocery store when I pass the bakery goods.
I don’t need double chocolate chip muffins or Eric Steinmann.
“Did Freya tell you I’ve knocked on your door numerous times? You’re never home … even when I know your bike is in the rack downstairs.”
“Sometimes I walk. Sometimes I take an Uber to visit my parents.”
“Sometimes you’re hiding in your bedroom when I knock on your door.”
“I don’t know what you want,” I whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t know what this is. And I don’t like that you live three doors down from me and I have to dodge you like this.”