She shifts, crossing her legs slowly—deliberately—and leans in as though she’s going to whisper something harmless. But her lips brush my jaw when she speaks, soft and devastating.
“This is why we don’t drink and ovulate.”
I turn my head enough for our mouths to almost touch. “You’re playing with fire, Mrs. Sebring.”
Her hand squeezes my thigh. “And you love it.”
God help me, I do.
I glance at the driver’s eyes in the mirror. Focused on the road. Good.
I slide my hand a little higher. Not enough to get us kicked out of the cab but enough to remind her I know how to make her squirm.
She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t even blink. Just lets out a breath that sounds like a dare.
“Keep on and we won’t make it to the bedroom,” she whispers.
I smile, low and slow. “Maybe you should stop testing my limits.”
She grins and drags her nails down my arm. It’s only a graze, but my body reacts like she flipped a switch.
“If you keep doing that, I’m going to break every rule tonight and give you twins.”
She bursts out laughing, burying her face in the side of my neck. “You wouldn’t.”
I catch her wrist, guiding her hand down and pressing it over the hard line straining against my jeans. “Don’t tell me I wouldn’t.”
Her breath hitches, and that wicked smile returns.
Suddenly, it doesn’t matter how fast the cab is moving. Home can’t come soon enough.
By the time the taxi turns onto our street, we’re both half buzzed, half feral, and fully aware this night isn’t ending anytime soon.
We stumble through the door, half laughing, half kissing—lips brushing between gasps and bad aim. Her heel knocks against the wall with a sharp clack, and I shoulder the light switch on by accident, flooding the entryway with a glow neither of us needs. I hit it again, plunging us back into shadows.
We don’t bother speaking. Every word we’ve not spoken is communicated in the tension strung tight between our bodies.
Her fingers grip the front of my shirt with fists. My hands are all over her—spanning her back, dragging down to her hips, yanking her closer every chance I get. She kisses me like the old-fashioneds are still working their way through her blood.
By the time we make it to the kitchen, I’ve got her pinned against the island. My hands are planted firmly at her waist, but hers are everywhere—scraping through my hair, curling into the back of my neck, and tugging at my belt.
She arches into me with a low noise that punches the air out of my lungs.
“You are trouble,” I growl against her throat, letting my teeth scrape along her skin enough to make her shiver.
“You love trouble,” she whispers, a smile in her voice.
She doesn’t wait. Just pushes herself up onto the edge of the counter. I catch her thighs as they part—instinct, hunger, a reaction I couldn’t stop if I tried.
She braces her feet on the edge of the marble, knees bent, legs open wide enough to taunt me. And then—snap. She closes them again, tight as a trap.
I freeze, a beat too slow. My breath comes out in a rasp. “Stop that.”
She tilts her head, lashes low. “Make me.”
Challenge accepted.
I drop my hand to the hem of her dress and shove it higher, revealing those ridiculous lace knickers she knows I can’t ignore. I find the crotch and hook my fingers under it.
