Page 16 of Unhurried Hearts

“No driving? That’s half the fun of the day.” He scrunches his face in faux judgment. I know his Jeep is his baby. My car, on the other hand, is used maybe twice a week.

I press the elevator button, figuring I’ll give my quads a break since I have Chris’s protection from unwanted bachelor advances. Speaking of bachelors, my mind is desperately trying to figure out why Chris is walking me upstairs. He wants my number, and I’m going to give it to him, but what’s he going todowith it? When the elevator doors slide open, Chris’s hot hand finds my lower back and he ushers me inside with subtle pressure. As soon as I’ve cleared the doors, that hand slides over to my hip. Instinctually, I know he wants me to turn around. I hesitate. What the hell will happen when I do? I gather my fortitude and spin around. Chris is right there, close enough that I can see the dark stray hairs that rest on his tee. I brush them off the fabric, relishing the firmness of his built shoulders beneath my fingers, the way the soft shirt clings to his sloping traps. In a swift motion, he clasps my hands in his, bringing them down between us. My knuckles graze his firm abs as he stares me down with warm chocolatey eyes. For all the times I wished the elevator went faster to escape the company of various male occupants, this is a ride that ends too soon. As the doors slide open, he adjusts his grip so we’re simply holding hands. He hesitates, unsure of which way to go.

“It’s three-zero-four,” I say.

He leads, reading the numbers fixed beside each door beneath cylindrical sconces that cast a warm glow in the hall. I try to match his long strides, repositioning my bag on my shoulder when it slips. Of course, my door is the furthest away, the last one on the right.

Is this it?

Will we fall inside and fumble out of our clothes and get it over with?

What the hell underwear did I put on this morning?

Will it be good?

I examine the way his shorts cling to his unfairly round ass as he walks. Yeah, it’ll be good.

Reaching the door, he releases me. My palms are sweating. A response to increasing nerves and the sheer heat that Chris seems to produce and as I look for my keys my bag slips from my shoulder, thudding onto the carpet. I bend to retrieve it but his hands encircle my waist.

“My keys are in there.”

He guides me closer, stopping a hair’s breadth before our torsos meet.

“You don’t need them right now,” he rasps, staring hungrily at my parted lips.

I fall the rest of the way, allowing our hips to meet for the first time. The solid wall of man doesn’t budge. He brushes his full lips against mine, the sensation drawingan audible moan from my throat. He smiles against my mouth. Rising onto my toes in a vain attempt to match his six feet, I clutch at the place where his t-shirt meets his skin. And then hereallykisses me and I gasp before getting myself together and trying to return everything he’s giving. The weight he puts behind the kiss would probably knock me over if not for the way I’m adhered to him, hip to hip, breasts to chest. As I relax into the kiss, his hot tongue explores the shape of my lips. Tension is coiling inside my belly and there’s the unmistakable swell of Chris’s arousal. A harsh click startles me, abruptly ending a kiss that’s quickly becoming more than a simple liplock.

Someone clears their throat. “Anna.”

Oh, great. Tanner. Impeccable timing as always.

He rolls his eyes at us, locks his door, and marches away, opting to take the stairs rather than wait for the elevator.

Chris stares at the door he disappeared through.

“Ugh,” I groan, turning back and burying my face in Chris’s chest.

Chris chuckles, squeezing me against him, the vibration of his laughter against my ear.

“I hate that guy. He’s one of the persistent men I mentioned.”

I reluctantly leave the safety of his chest to look up at him and I swear I see a muscle in his jaw contract.

“Looks like a boy to me.”

Is he jealous? The idea of Chris being jealous over another guy asking me out makes me want to dance around my condo.

I stoop to retrieve my bag. “Let me get my keys so we can continue that in privacy.”

The key scrapes the lock when I hear him suck a breath of air between his teeth. “Anna. I’d love to, but…”

But? But, what? Can he smell the virgin on me? My desperation? Am I a bad kisser?

“If I follow you in there…”

My cheeks glow at the possibility. Why can’t he finish a damn sentence? He’s using that placating tone people use when they are worried that someone is going to react badly.

“The timing here isn’t great.”

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