Page 55 of Sin City Lights

Then he remembered the Platinum Package and its perks. He wouldn’t need to wear one with her. He’d just emailed Eleet a new health record.

Fuck.

He shouldn’t think of that when he was wearing sweats.

His gaze roamed over her full breasts and narrow waist. She was dressed to kill a man, he thought, in a tight, ribbed white tank top and denim micro shorts. Daisy Duke, eat your heart out.

She set down her uneaten crust and went to open the refrigerator. Not much food in there, he noted. Mostly bottles of Aquafina and juice cartons. Huh. She ate out a lot. He’d also have to turn her on to Voss.

“I have Pellegrino, orange juice, water, of course, and…” She leaned deeper inside her fridge to rummage behind bottles, and he treated himself to a view of her bare thighs and pert backside.

“I had a couple of bottles of Corona in here, somewhere,” she said.

She didn’t drink much. He liked that.“No worries. Not a fan of beer.”

“Let me guess. You’re terrified of getting a beer belly.”

“Never going to happen. But, no, I just don’t like the taste.”

She straightened. The front view was just as nice. The white tank top strained over her gorgeous breasts and had slipped off one shoulder. He thought of tonguing there, right at her clavicle.

She hastily fixed her top.

That only made him imagine her peeling down the other side for him. He thought of tugging the whole thing down under her breasts, shoving them up, and burying his face between them.

She started to cross her arms but stopped. She raised her chin.“Sorry. I don’t have any other alcohol besides the beer.”

He recalled her sucking on that tall piña colada.“You drank in the Caymans,” he pointed out, eyes lingering on her mouth.

“I do drink, but not when I’m alone.”

So, she was always alone when she was home? Dared he hope he was the only man she’d ever let in here?

Wishful thinking, he knew, but the notion pleased him.“I’ll take a water. Thanks.”

She handed him a bottle, then ran her palms over her shorts.

“I’ll be right back.” She seemed a little tense.

He watched her hips shift as she walked in bare feet, to the bathroom, he guessed. Those thighs… He remembered their silky softness under his fingertips.

He needed a drink.

Palming his phone, he quickly found the app he wanted. A few clicks, then he tapped on “place order,” picked up his bottle of Aquafina, and wandered into the living room.

Minimal decor.

Modern red leather sofa, matching silk pillows, plain cherry coffee table, and one oversize high-backed wicker peacock chair that looked out of place and didn’t fit the rest of her furniture. A fat tan cushion sat upon it, and he could picture her curled up in it, reading. He glanced at the heavy book on the side table next to it, a highlighter tucked halfway in.

Anatomy textbook. Interesting.

Thrown across the curved arm of the chair was an old afghan. Crocheted loosely in brown, yellow, and orange, it reminded him of candy corn.

He hated candy corn.

Damn. The seventies were calling, and they wanted their ugly afghan back.

“My grandmother crocheted that,” he heard her say defensively.

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