Page 19 of Sharing Shane

She blinked her way clear of the hypnotizing effect of his body in motion. “I’m sorry, I’m being so rude.”

He grunted, which she assumed meant yep.

“I haven’t had any coffee,” she said again. “Do you, um, want to join me for a cup? My treat.”

“Don’t drink it.”

“Oh.”

“But you can buy me a Mountain Dew.”

She blinked. “You don’t drink coffee, but you drink Mountain Dew?”

He grinned, a sudden flash of bright white teeth in the forest of his beard. “I’m not trying to avoid caffeine, just the taste of burned beans.”

She locked her knees—they’d gone weak when he smiled. “I usually disguise it with sugar and steamed milk.”

That grin flashed again, further liquifying the bones in her legs that were supposed to hold her up. If he smiled at her one more time, she’d be on the floor. “Mountain Dew’s easier.”

She grimaced at that. “I’m pretty sure that tastes worse.”

He shrugged, making the duffle over his shoulder bounce, and turned. “There’s a café in the terminal. We can get something there.”

He took a few steps, seemed to realize she wasn’t following, and glanced back over his shoulder. “You coming?”

“Yeah. Sure. I just...” She leaned down to fasten her forgotten ankle strap, then straightened and grabbed the handle of her rollaway. “All set.”

He grunted again, hitched his duffle bag higher on his shoulder, and headed for the escalator that fed into the terminals.

Her eyes dropped to his butt. The rear view was almost as good as the front, she noted, then gave herself a mental bitch slap. They were going to be sharing a cottage for the week, she reminded herself, and she’d already gotten off on the wrong foot. Thankfully he thought she was a ditzy jerk instead of a horny slut, and for the next week she needed to make a concerted effort to keep her eyes—and her lascivious thoughts—to herself.

Of course, a little harmless fantasy never hurt anything. She trailed after Shane down the escalator, her eyes locked onto his fantasy grade ass, and made a mental note to Google where to buy a vibrator in Bermuda.

Shane spent most of the flight staring at the seat in front of him, and the crown of dark hair just visible above it. Veronica Black had plunked herself down in her first-class seat as soon as they boarded, and as far as he could tell she hadn’t moved since.

Which suited him fine, because he had no idea what he was supposed to say to her. What he wanted to say was “I like your tits, do you want to fuck?”, and that was the wrong move entirely.

Wyatt was right—it had been way too long since he’d been with a woman. Unfortunately, that realization had hit him while standing in front of Veronica, looking down the neck of her shirt at what seemed like an acre of soft white cleavage as she bent to fasten her shoe. Abundant breasts behind a mannish shirt was a visual that never failed to trip his trigger, and if her tailored camp shirt didn’t quite fit his fantasies, well, his mind was perfectly capable of substituting one of his own rarely worn dress shirts. And while it was on a roll, his artist’s imagination had also stripped away the crisp capri pants, so when she stood, he’d had no trouble envisioning her with her dark hair tousled out of its sleek bob, white skin flushed with desire, and those pin-up curves draped in his dress shirt and nothing else.

The first thought to penetrate the sudden haze of lust was that whoever had cheated on this woman was a grade-A asshole. It was followed closely by the second, which was that springing a boner steps away from TSA was highly uncomfortable.

And the third was the realization that lusting after the woman with whom he was going to be sharing a house for the week was a recipe for blue balls. So, he’d forced himself to pull it together, grunted something at her about not liking coffee, and now he was pretty sure she thought he was a coffee-hating misanthrope.

Which wasn’t, despite all indications to the contrary, true. He didn’t hate people, he just didn’t have much use for most of them.

He did hate coffee, though.

He shifted in his seat with a sigh. Thanks to Wyatt booking his flight— “you’ll forget, just let me handle it”—he was enjoying the extra legroom and cloth napkins of first class. The napkins he couldn’t care less about, but since he was usually chewing on his kneecaps in coach, the legroom was nice—though he wasn’t sure the extra money was worth it. Being married to a corporate lawyer who put in a lot of billable hours had given Wyatt a somewhat skewed notion of what constituted a reasonable expense, and even though Shane’s business was doing well and he could afford some luxuries, he could never seem to shake the anxiety that came with spending money on something he could easily do without.

He shifted in his seat again, trying to find a position that didn’t make his dick feel like it was being pinched. He was still sporting a semi, thanks to Veronica’s tailored shirt and bombshell tits, and it wasn’t going away. He considered heading to the bathroom to take care of it, but joining the Mile-High Club solo was just too fucking creepy. Besides, the way his morning was going, a flight attendant would probably burst in on him and the whole of first-class see him with his dick in his hand.

For the sake of his dignity, he stayed in his seat. Resigned to spending the rest of the flight to Atlanta—and the connecting flight to Bermuda, and the shuttle ride that would take them to the resort—in discomfort, he sighed again. Maybe a nap would help. He could catch up on some of the sleep he’d lost over the last week of hectic, pre-vacation work, and if he was lucky, he’d have a bad dream that would chase away even the slightest hint of boner.

Except when he closed his eyes, all he could see was big hazel eyes, soft red lips, and the shadowy hint of cleavage tucked behind a crisp white shirt.

Annoyed and aroused, he opened his eyes and glared at the dark hair above the seat in front of him.

By the time they reached the resort, the sun was setting over the ocean and Shane’s nerves had been stretched to their breaking point. He’d been seated next to Veronica on the connecting flight, in coach this time. They’d been packed in together like sardines in a can, and no matter how he’d contorted his body, some part of him had been touching some part of her the entire flight. He’d thought it was bad when his thigh had been forced up against hers, but the worst part had been the arms. They were both wearing short sleeves, so when his forearm had briefly pressed against hers it was skin against skin. And hers was warm and soft and smelled somehow of peaches.

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