He rapped on the door frame and she turned, startled. When she saw him, she yanked her feet off the desktop and he watched, enjoying the sight, as her toes did a version of Riverdance under the desk until she located two high-heeled shoes and attempted to jam her feet into them while simultaneously dragging her skirt back into place.
She continued her conversation, to a florist he presumed, since the words rose and baby’s breath occurred so often.
Once she’d successfully navigated her feet into her shoes, she turned her chair, and thus her back, to him and continued her conversation. “What about the ribbon? Were you able to match the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses?” He watched her pick up the pen he’d given her and begin to doodle. “Mmm-hmm. Okay. I know it’s a difficult color to match, but the bride is very particular about tone.” She made a quick note. “Well, I think you should send over a sample of the ribbon and we can let the bride decide. Yes, I know. Right. See you.” And she hung up.
She let him stand there another moment while she made notes. Then she turned her chair so she was facing him.
“Hi,” he said.
“Didn’t Sophie get hold of you?” his ex-wife asked, rising and coming to stand in front of her desk.
He’d had his cell phone turned off while he was on-site with the client. Had he remembered to turn it back on? He didn’t think so. “Why?”
“She got held up at work. She rescheduled our meeting.”
“Oh.” He pulled out his cell phone and when he turned it on, there was the little voice mail icon. “Guess I forgot to check my messages.”
“Guess so.”
She didn’t move. If there was a posture for “there’s the door, don’t let it hit you on your way out,” she was demonstrating it. But he’d known this woman for a long time, and during the best of that time, intimately, and he knew she was skittish because she didn’t want to be alone with him. Not when they both knew that the fire that had always burned between them hadn’t grown fainter from time apart. If anything, it burned fiercer than ever.
Ever since that kiss the other night he’d been thinking that it was inevitable they’d end up back in bed.
He glanced at that sturdy-looking desk. Or not in bed.
“Has your assistant left for the day?”
“Yep, and I’m finished for the day, too, so I’ll let you know when the meeting’s rescheduled.” She stuck out her hand for him to shake.
Maybe if she hadn’t done that he would have walked away as she was pretending she wanted him to. But offering her hand like he was a casual business acquaintance?
She might as well have flipped him the bird.
He took her hand. Held it in his for a moment too long, felt the quiver running along her skin, the soft warmth of their palm-to-palm contact. Not letting go of her hand he took a step toward her.
She stepped back.
He took another step toward her.
“Dex, what are you…” Her hips bumped the desk and their gazes locked.
He watched the quick intake of breath, the way it raised her glorious, extravagant breasts against the silk of her blouse. Her mouth opened slightly and he moved in, taking her mouth as though he owned it because on some primitive level he did. Always had. Always would.
The sweet taste of her exploded on his lips and tongue and then he pulled her in all the way, tight against him so her breasts were pressing against his chest, her hips jammed against him, her butt pressed against the edge of her feminine desk.
For a second he felt her go rigid, thought she might push him away, but as quickly as her resistance rose, it receded and with a low moan in the back of her throat, she pushed her hands into his hair, pulled him into her.
He’d always loved her honest passion, the way she let him know what she was feeling and what she wanted. Mindless, they pulled at each other, the years of separation, the anger, the frustration falling away as they clawed at each other.
He had his hands shoved down her top, grabbing at her breasts, pulling them out of her bra so he could see them, feel them, taste them. She’d always been slightly embarrassed about the size of her breasts but he loved them. When he put his tongue to her nipple the flavor took him back to the first time they’d ever been together, when he’d discovered this woman was made for sex. Or, as he secretly liked to think, she was made for sex with him.
Her head dropped back as he curled his tongue around the sensitive point, pushed his knee between her legs until she parted for him. Without taking his mouth from her breast he reached under her hips and hoisted her up until she sat on the desk, her pretty floral skirt sliding up as he pushed it up, up, over her hips. She spread herself wide for him, her arms twined around his neck, her head thrown back as he pleasured her.
The joy of this woman was how well he knew her body, how intimately he could gauge her responses. Beneath his tongue her skin was heating and he could feel her pulse hammering. When he trailed a hand down between her thighs he found her as wet and hot as he’d suspected he would. He cupped her, making her moan and squirm against his fingers.
“It’s been so long,” he murmured against her plump flesh.
“Too long,” she moaned.
Slipping his hands beneath her hips, he peeled the tiny scrap of pale blue silk and lace that passed for underwear off her, bending as he slid the foolish thing down her legs and over the ridiculous heels. He was throbbing with need, so aroused he was in danger of embarrassing himself as he rose and slid open his zipper.
She reached between them, unbuttoning him and sliding her small, capable hands around him which didn’t help his self-control.
While she caressed him he returned the favor, cupping her heat, slipping one finger into that glorious wet until she squirmed against him. He knew her so well, he knew that she was as close to exploding as he was.
He looked down into her face, her eyes that clear blue-green, her cheeks flushed with passion, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks, her lips parted and eager. He closed the distance between them, kissing her hungrily.
Had he ever wanted her this much? Had he ever wanted anyone or anything this badly? If so, he couldn’t remember.
She pulled him closer and as he touched the wet heat he suddenly checked himself as reality intruded. They weren’t married anymore. He had no idea if she was on birth control or what she’d been doing since they were last together. With a groan of gut-deep frustration he cursed himself for no longer carrying a condom in his wallet. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. The only prophylactics he owned were safely in his bedside drawer at home.
Pulling away slightly, then resting his forehead against hers, he admitted the awful truth. “I don’t have protection,” he gasped.
“Oh, no…wait, I’ve got some condoms in my desk drawer.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. On top of the hair spray, I think.”
He bounded around the desk and flung open the drawer. The oddest assortment of products greeted him. He dug around and found the unopened box wedged between a can of breath spray and a tube of Preparation H.
Whatever.
He didn’t let himself think about why his ex-wife kept a box of condoms in her desk drawer, simply decided to be grateful.
He tore into the box and swiftly sheathed himself, then holding his pants up with one hand, made his