Her lips curved up as if she were thinking of the answer. “I don’t think I had it on my list in high school. But I always liked helping. I think I always enjoyed being someone my friends could turn to for advice, even with simple things when I was younger like what to wear on the first day of school, and then when I was older on things like what to say to their parents when they got in trouble, or what should they do about this teacher, or that boy, or this problem.”
“You were a natural,” he said.
She shrugged, as if blowing off the compliment. “Maybe. But it wasn’t until my parents died, and I had a tough time of it for a while in college that I started to try therapy myself for a few months, to deal with all the residual sadness. It made a difference for me so I realized it was the perfect marriage for me professionally.”
“I bet you’re good at,” he said, stroking her collarbone absently. Her skin was so soft, and he loved touching her, loved the feel of her beneath his fingertips.
“You missed your chance. That ship has sailed for you, sir.”
“I can’t say I regret it. Because I like this arrangement we have going on.”
“Me too. Is the sex therapy working for you, Jack? Helping you heal that wounded heart?” she asked, tracing a heart shape on his chest. He tensed momentarily at the suggestion of why he was a damaged man. He almost wanted her to know the truth. That he wasn’t hurting; he was besieged by guilt. But they weren’t dredging up the past now. They were focused on the present.
“It’s working immensely,” he said, and that was true—he felt lighter, freer with her. “And you? Are we getting that guy out of the rearview mirror?”
She leaned closer, pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. “How could I think of anyone else while I’m sitting on your lap like this?”
“I like you on my lap,” he said, glancing down at her and the way her gorgeous body molded to his. How her ass felt on his thighs. How her back rested gently against his arms. How her legs felt draped on him.
“Funny, but you don’t really seem like a lap person,” she said, playing with the collar on his shirt, then his tie, running her fingers along it.
“Why not?” he asked, wrenching back as if she’d offended him.
“Don’t know. It just seems sort of warm and cuddly.”
He rolled his yes. “This from the woman who won’t spend the night. This from the woman who keeps me at arm’s length.”
“Isn’t that the length you prefer?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know why, but the guilt that normally clawed at him was absent right now. It had slinked off, like smoke curling away. He felt stripped bare, but he didn’t mind her knowing how he felt, because somehow she was working her way past all those barriers he’d built to protect people from himself, and she wasn’t even trying to knock them down. She simply did it by being herself. By talking. By asking. By wanting to know him.
Their conversation today seemed to be a stepping stone to something more. To closeness. It should have scared him. Should have sent him into preservation mode, both for his sake and for hers. But it didn’t. It only made him want more of her. He hoped this feeling wouldn’t lead to an impossible choice down the road. Or even in two weeks, when their thirty nights ran out.
He didn’t want to focus on that, though. He wanted to exist in the moment with her.
“With you, I don’t mind less than arm’s length,” he whispered, then brushed his lips against her hair, burying his face in the soft strands and bringing her even closer. “And I want you to spend the night with me. I want to see you in the mornings too.”
She pulled back. “I don’t know.”
“Is that you protecting your heart again?”
“Yes,” she said, and he liked that she didn’t hide the truth. She simply admitted it.
“But I make amazing scrambled eggs.”
“Well, in that case,” she teased, as she finally unknotted his tie, “I’ll take it under advisement.”
He looked down his nose at her handiwork, her hands tap dancing on his chest.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me naked.”
“Maybe I am,” she purred.
“But I’m working,” he said in a playful voice, as her fingers undid his buttons. The afternoon was shot. He didn’t care anymore. He had other things on his mind.
“I think work is over for you today.”
“Do you want me to do bad things to you?”
“What do you think?”
He nodded. “All signs point to yes,” he said, giving her an 8-Ball answer. He didn’t need a fortuneteller or tarot cards to tell him she was going to enjoy all the bad things he’d do. Her body made it clear.
He reached for her hips, lifted her off him and set her down on the edge of his desk. He stood up, zipped his pants and held her face in his hands, and moved in to plant a bruising kiss on her lips. She gasped the second he made contact and he kissed the sound away, feasting on her lips, turning everything playful into something hot and hungry once more.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dirty Inquisition
The moment shifted in a nanosecond. She’d held the power when she’d sauntered into his office, costume on, plan in hand. Now he had the reins and she was quivering with want from the way he devoured her lips, as he spread her legs easily with a strong nudge of his thighs.