Page 72 of A Very Un-Shakespeare Romance
“You would, given your propensity for wands and tinfoil crowns.” He tipped her neck to the side as his mouth slid down the line of it, making her fight a low moan. “Enough talk of my brother. Any thoughts on how we’re going to do this, handcuffed together? Because I cannot contemplate the ragging we’d get if we go over now and ask to be uncuffed, only to come back here for some personal time.”
“Sheila would have us for lunch.”
“So would my brothers, and then there’s Tara.” His face shadowed. “I’m going to tell myself she’ll have some time with the girls while we’re over here, so I won’t feel guilty.”
“I prefer a guilt-free zone too.” She laughed to cover up her own nerves, tickling the back of his neck with her fingertips. “You might start for the stairs. My bedroom is the last at the end of the hall. I figure we’re both smart people. We’ll manage with the cuffs.”
He hoisted her more securely and started walking. “I want to do more than manage. I want to make you call out my name.”
“Oh, goodie,” she breathed out, holding on and enjoying the rub of his generous length as he ascended the stairs.
“Hell, I want to destroy every ounce of control inside you.” He met her gaze, his ocean blue eyes pure challenge now. “How about that?”
She laughed low in her throat. “Are we going to have a little competition here too? Think you can keep up, Grandpa?”
He gave a wolfish smile. “Wanna bet who cries out first?”
“Maybe not our first time, huh?” She nudged her lower body against his hardness. “Crying out is part of the fun, and I expect to be crying out often from the way you make me feel inside.”
“How do I make you feel?” he asked, stopping at the doorway to her bedroom.
She tightened her hips around him, the motion making him groan audibly. “Hot. Happy. Needy. I know it’s going to be good with you.”
His mouth swooped in for another soul-claiming kiss, heating up the rising fire in her belly. “Yeah, no doubt about that. Summer—Lily—”
She tensed at the use of both names, watching the struggle on his face. Holding her breath, she waited for him to come to terms with whatever he was about to say.
“I don’t do this lightly,” he finally managed in a low voice. “Making love to you means I’ve decided that I want you in my life. That I’m prepared to trust you.”
A hard ball of emotion stuck in her throat. So here they were, both on the precipice of committing to things that weren’t easy for either of them. “I’m glad you told me. It’s the same for me.”
“Good,” he rasped out, resting her against the doorjamb. “Now, maybe we can figure out how we’re going to manage getting you out of your clothes because I don’t think I can wait another minute to touch you.”
She unwrapped her legs slowly, and with his help, she lowered herself to the floor. Looking down at where they were cuffed, she studied their situation. “Well, how do you feel about your shirt?”
“Why?” he asked, cupping her hip with a large, hot hand.
“I always carry a pair of seamstress scissors with me on the job. They’re invaluable and a seemingly innocent weapon if needed.”
His mouth kicked up to the right. “I like a box cutter myself, but your approach is more understated. You know…it’s going to take a little bit to get used to you being FBI. As I said, I haven’t had great experiences—”
“I get that. If we’re being honest, not all my interactions with the police have been terrific. But I’m hoping we can have a clean slate with each other.”
He nodded. “Done, seeing as how we both catch bad guys and probably drink the same bad coffee.”
She sighed in relief, appreciating him trying to make a joke. “Are you willing to talk it out later? Our jobs.”
“Yeah.” He gave a haphazard chuckle. “You know, I’ve talked more in the last few days than I have in the last three years. I’m looking for a little more balance in my life. I miss the action.”
“Well, come this way,” she said, leading him to her bedside drawer, pulling it open for the scissors. And condoms, she realized. Right.
She held up a foil packet, and he nodded, taking it from her and putting it beside the pillow.
“You’re a Glock girl,” he said, pointing to the gun in the drawer. “That explains everything.”
She shot him a look. “What isyourpreferred weapon? Besides the obvious…”
He gestured to his erection before lifting his shoulder. “We have three department-issued Glock choices, but personally I like a Benelli M3.”
