But she didn’t move. Just stood there staring at her hands while tears pooled in her eyes.
Ah, hell.
Acting on instincts he wasn’t sure he could trust, Shane pulled her into his arms. She stiffened against him. He did his best to remain calm despite the fact that wrapping his arms around a crying woman was a completely foreign concept.
“It’s okay,” he murmured to both of them, smoothing a palm over her back. Before his insecurities took flight, she lifted her arms and looped them around his neck.
Shane stroked her back, then her hair, the movements coming more naturally than he expected. Crickitt clung to him, the cries wringing from her lungs causing his heart to lurch.
A wash of anger came over him, directed toward her jag-off ex and whatever he said to make her cry, but he forced his irritation to the side. Crickitt didn’t need his anger; she needed his friendship. He held her until her cries ceased, until her breaths evened out.
She didn’t loosen her grip but stayed positioned between his legs, her breasts smashed into his chest. Ignoring her soft curves was downright torturous, but he forced himself to focus on giving her what she needed. Moving his palm in lazy circles on her back, he offered assurances of “I’m here” and “You’ll be okay.”
When she finally shifted, he tried to back away, to give her space. She was probably embarrassed and wanted a moment to herself to—
The slow upward thrust of Crickitt’s fingertips along his scalp stalled his thoughts in their tracks. As each follicle fell back into place with agonizing sluggishness, a new pattern of gooseflesh cropped up on his forearms.
It’s an involuntary reaction, he thought, struggling to keep his palms flat on her back rather than crush her against him. She probably doesn’t even know she’s—
A hot breath fanned over his neck, and Shane sucked in one of his own, the muscles in his thighs going as rigid as rebar. Before his rapidly fading self-control hijacked his brain, Shane gripped Crickitt’s upper arms to pull her away. He’d offer to get her a glass of water, then find a chair and whip to tame the drove of hormones busily turning him into a horny teenager.
“Sweetheart…” His voice was strained, tight.
Crickitt moaned what sounded like “no” before knotting her hands into his hair, tugging his head back and searing the side of his neck with an openmouthed kiss.
Shane’s nerve endings tripped like breakers. Without his consent, his hands hauled her closer as she devoured and nipped his neck. Then suckled his earlobe, her breaths coming out in short pants. By the time she blazed a mind-numbing path to his jaw, leaving his skin damp and cool, Shane’s good intentions were a far-gone memory.
Until he opened his eyes and took in their surroundings. The fluorescents overhead hummed quietly, a light blinked on her phone to show a waiting voice mail. And here he was, the boss, sitting on his personal assistant’s desk, taking advantage of her vulnerability.
Using the sprinkler system overhead as a focal point, he gripped her arms and firmly but gently hauled her away from his body. Stormy blue eyes met his, heat and sincerity and tenderness mingling in their depths, and whatever practical, pragmatic argument he’d cooked up dispersed like steam from an overheated kettle.
Her plush, full lips crashed into his, and with a low moan of defeat, Shane threaded his fingers into her crown of curls and tugged her mouth to his.
This. This is what he should have done the first night she tentatively pecked him on the lips. He’d allowed guilt to hold him back, resisting with everything he had, but now that he’d given in to the temptation eating him alive, he couldn’t stop. Her hands rested on his thighs as she tilted her head back, her lips pliant and soft beneath his. She silently conceded control and he took it, sliding his tongue along her lips, begging for entrance.
One taste. Just one taste.
She obliged and his tongue swept into her mouth. She tasted of peppermint and thick, hot passion. She gave as good as she got, gripping his tie and dragging him closer, her teeth scraping his bottom lip. She freed the knot with a sharp yank, and he heard the rasp of silk as she slipped the tie through his collar and tossed it aside.
He grabbed for her shirt with both hands, untucking it even as Crickitt worked the buttons on his shirt with shaky, impatient fingers. Her hands were everywhere, and his abdomen clenched, muscles tightening under the nip of her short nails.
Returning the favor, Shane slid his hands under the hem of her shirt, over her contracting and expanding rib cage, and closed his palms over her breasts. A breath hissed between her teeth, and her mouth was on him again, tongue dipping into the hollow of his throat. Beneath his hands, her nipples hardened and Shane plucked them with eager fingers.