I was so sensitive, so wet, that the slightest touch, the graze of a fingertip over my clit had my hips rocking forward, wanting more. With my eyes closed, I listened to him talk, his accent curving the words into something that sent a current of awareness from my nipples to my pussy. I imagined him pushing those words into my neck; the rise and fall of his voice became the rhythm of him moving in and out of me. I imagined him just on the other side of the door, knowing that I was touching myself, and begging that he be the one to do it next time.
The very idea was enough to send me over the edge, and I came against my own hand, my body arching into the touch.
Only then did I notice how quiet the outside office had grown, and that I might possibly have been too loud. I could hear the even tick of the watch on my wrist, the faint hum of traffic on the street below, but no more voices, no footsteps pacing through the office.
Once my legs were steady, I stood and righted my clothes, moving to the sink to freshen up.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I crept into the hall, nearly crashing into him on the way out.
“Sorry!” I gasped, attempting to catch a stack of files as they scattered across the floor. “Let me get those!” I exclaimed, definitely emphasizing my growing undercurrent of embarrassment.
Niall ignored me, and bent to gather the papers himself.
I tried to avoid meeting his gaze, certain what I’d just done had to be written in flashing, neon ink across my forehead.
I smoothed my skirt and tucked my bangs to the side before I looked up at him. He was studying me, head tilted.
“What?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“Are you all right?”
“Of course I am.”
“You’re flushed. Are you quite sure you’re not feeling poorly? I can certainly manage by myself today if—”
“I’m fine,” I said, shrugging out of his reach, feeling a small flash of irritation.
He followed me to my desk, watchful gaze nearly burning a hole through the back of my head.
“You haven’t been . . . running up stairs?” he asked haltingly, as if he knew it wasn’t quite right.
“No, I . . .” I considered lying, but knew he’d never buy that. “Jesus, you’re like a dog with a bone. Can we change the subject, please?”
His eyes softened as they scanned my face, and then he inhaled sharply, glancing over my shoulder as if remembering where we were. “Come on then. Out with it.”
“I was . . .” I started, wondering who I’d have to kill to get the ground to just open up and swallow me whole. Seriously, this playing field was starting to feel a little uneven. “I was just . . .”
“You were . . .” His brows drew together and his gaze flickered to my hand at my throat as he seemed to understand. “In the ladies’ room? Just now?”
“Yes.”
“At work?”
Ugh.
“I’m sorry . . . After last night and then today . . .”
“Wait,” he said, swallowing thickly. “You were thinking of me in there?”
“Of course, I—” I began and then stopped, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. How did he stay so quiet, so still? “You touch me, but then you turn aloof. The mixed signals make me feel crazy.”
And now I felt crazy with a side of humiliation.
I almost jumped when I felt the gentle prod of his finger under my chin. “Did you come, my darling?”
Fire slid into my veins, and when I looked up at him, I saw the same burning in his.
I licked my lips, nodding.
“Tell me specifically what were you thinking about.”
“Touching you,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Kissing you.”
He nodded, eyes unfocused as he stared at my lips.
It was all the invitation I needed. I stood on my tiptoes, running my nose along the warm skin of his neck. He made a sound that was something between a whimper and a groan, and tried to put the smallest amount of space between us. Looking down at me, he seemed to struggle to work through a hundred different things. I could immediately tell he was torn. Maybe I was right, and post-divorce, he felt a little gun-shy. Maybe he was worried this was all moving too fast. Or maybe he simply wasn’t comfortable doing things my way: sprinting headlong into what was sure to be mind-blowing sex and staying in bed until our return flight left for London.
In that moment, I felt like I’d take whatever I could get, even if that meant ten years of flirtation leading up to a single, careful kiss.
“Are you okay?” I asked quietly.
“I just wonder if we should . . .” He swallowed, wincing slightly.
“Ship me back to London and never speak to me again?”
He laughed but shook his head. “Please, no.”
“Talk about what happened last night?”
He reached up, ran his thumb across my chin. “Yes.”
Relief and anxiety threaded together in my chest. “My mom always said if you can’t talk about it, you shouldn’t be doing it.”
His brow lifted at this, and he studied my face, lips curled up in the sweetest, hopeful smile. “Quiet dinner it is, then.”
Niall met me at my hotel room door, dressed again in my favorite charcoal suit and tie. It was cut perfectly for his long, muscular frame and the gray brought out the yellow in his honey-brown eyes. Those eyes would be focused on me all night. Just me.
I might combust.
We took a cab to Perry St, an upscale restaurant housed in a high-rise glass building just off—you guessed it—Perry Street. It was elegant and chic, with floor-to-ceiling windows and minimal décor. Tables and earth-toned booths packed with diners filled the large dining room, and I was suddenly worried we wouldn’t be able to get a table.