Page 25 of Thief

“What?”

She turned but her lips practically brushed his he was so close. “Make it look like we’ve made up.” He glanced at the driver who was observing them with suspicion through the rear view mirror. “Quick, Pussy Cat, or I’ll kiss you, and you’ll have no damn control over it.”

Her eyes narrowed and her lips squeezed together.

“It’s not like I want you to kiss me,” he murmured, taking a strand of her hair in between his fingers. “We just don’t need any extra attention this week. We don’t want to register in anyone’s memories.”

Something shifted in her eyes, as if she’d suddenly remembered the end game. She licked her cherry glossed lips, glanced at the driver in the mirror and gently pressed her mouth to his. As he absorbed her sweet flavour she reached up and pressed her hand over his hair. She let it slide down to his jawbone and onto his neck in a loving, tender caress. She twisted and pushed closer, real close, so her breasts were squashed against his T-shirt. She then tipped her head and slipped her tongue into his mouth, found his and tried to tease it into a dance.

But he remained passive as he allowed her to act out for the driver. He kept his eyes shut and held perfectly still while she traced the outline of his lips and delved deeper.

Gradually, his breaths got heavier, his tongue eased and turned pliable, tempted by her game. She slid a palm onto his chest, down his sternum and rested it on the waistband of his jeans. She let out an excited little moan which rumbled around the moving cab.

His spine stiffened, and he wrapped he arms around her waist. He snapped her closer.

“Is that working?” she whispered. “Am I doing it right?”

He cupped her face and pulled away so he could look into her eyes. “I think you’ve convinced our chauffer,” he said quietly.

“Mmm,” Kat hummed, dropping her hand onto the creases of his jeans. “I’ve certainly convinced you.” She settled her palm over his hard-on and gave the long column of bulging flesh a squeeze and a stroke.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he murmured. “I always get a stiffy in the morning. You could be the Wicked Witch of the East and I’d still be hard. Oh, wait, youarethe Wicked Witch of the East.”

Kat jerked her hand away. “Yeah, well, you’ve got morning breath.” She sat upright and looked out of the window. “Which I can assure you doesn’t turn me on.”

“Something about me turns you on.” He nodded down at her chest. Two hard little peaks strained through her thin blouse.

She crossed her arms and frowned.

He chuckled and shifted his position on the seat. “You brought morning breath on yourself. Let it be a lesson—ten minute warning next time, okay?”

“Or else?” She stared out the window.

“Or there’ll be no more Mr. Nice Guy.”

“Call this nice?” She dropped a withering look over him.

“This is me being a saint. Trust me, you really don’t want to see my devilish side. I don’t think you’d like him at all.”

* * * *

Kat was beyond miserable when they returned home four hours later. Normally, her monthly trip to have her hair coloured and trimmed cheered her up. Made her feel like she was giving herself a treat. But not today. John had spoilt it for her. Sitting there glowering the whole time. Looking like some beefy bodyguard she’d employed to follow her around town.

The girls at the salon had been quite taken with him. She could tell by their admiring glances and inquisitive questions. Was he her boyfriend? How had they met? What did he do? Kat didn’t offer any explanations. Why should she? She felt like telling them he was a pain in the arse. But that would generate more interest, and she could definitely do without that.

She spent the afternoon sprawled out on her bed reading old editions of Vogue and Cosmo with her music plugged in to drown out the sounds of him cooking.

Later into the evening when she listened by the door, all she could hear was the sound of the television so she quietly crept into the kitchen. The aromatic smell of John’s meal hung in the air and she wondered what he’d cooked with such fragrant herbs.

She popped a plastic-wrapped lasagna into the microwave, poured a generous glass of wine and sneaked back to her room to eat her small dinner in peace.

* * * *

Nine o’clock the next morning, she decided to ignore John’s ten-minute warning and dashed out her room towards the front door again. She glanced at the sofa, expecting to see him sprawled out. He wasn’t, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t see him and that suited her fine.

She curled her fingers around the handle, her heart soaring in triumph. She had it open an inch when a big, solid hand appeared by the side of her head.

Bang! The door slammed—her fingers narrowly missed catching between it and the frame—and a hard body crushed into her forcing her flat against the wood.

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