silken muscles, every inch of them worthy of hours of appreciation.
He wanted to start at her toes and kiss his way up those legs, draw his tongue along her smooth thighs, then bury his head between them and lose himself in her taste.
He wanted to see that body poised over his, watch her face as he entered her, as she rode him hard, sending them both into shuddering explosions of pleasure.
Yeah.
He wanted that.
Then he wanted to do it again.
A sharp jab in the ribs yanked Mitch out of his fantasy and into the present.
“What the—?” He shot a scowl at Romeo.
And got an unrepentant smile in return. The other man tilted his head. A tiny move that silently communicated a myriad of words.
Busted
,
Pay attention
and
What’s your problem?
came through loud and clear. Layered over them all was an amused sort of anticipation, as if his friend were looking forward to whatever was going to come next.
“Mitchell, are you listening to me?”
Crap.
Mitch grimaced, glancing from the forgotten fork in his hand to his plate. Sliced turkey, stuffing, vegetables, mound of mashed potatoes swimming in gravy.
Soft music created a classical backdrop to the polite murmur of voices, the rich aroma of an equally classic meal filling the air. The only-at-family-dinners-pressure of a tie around his throat intensified for a second.
Damn it, Mitch thought. Romeo was right—he
was
busted.
Mitch shifted mental gears and gave thanks that his mother served Thanksgiving dinner at a linen-covered table. It’d hide the physical evidence of his fantasy for the few extra moments it took his body to change gears, too.
Rearranging his expression, Mitch turned to offer the elegant woman across from him a conciliatory smile. As carefully presented and thoughtfully put-together as the tasteful meal and understated decor, Denise Donovan prided herself on her dinner parties. It didn’t matter if it was a fancy banquet for the military brass or a quiet family dinner—she had expectations.
Mitch wasn’t sure if he’d ever failed to meet them before. But he definitely had now.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he offered in his most sincere tone. “I was thinking about something else and didn’t hear what you said.”
“Obviously.” Her eyes flashed with rare anger at her only child. It was clear she was biting her tongue to hold herself back from lecturing him on his lack of manners.
She’d have had a point.
The family’s Thanksgiving dinner was probably not the best place for him to be wondering how many ways he could lick his way to the center of a very hot blonde.
Especially not with his prospective fiancée sitting right there.
His gaze shifting to the pretty brunette to his mother’s right, Mitch smiled his apology. For being inattentive, he tacked on mentally. Not for the fantasy. As nice as Charity Winslow was—and even with Denise Donovan’s perfect-daughter-in-law seal of approval—she wasn’t his type.
Mitch knew once his mother finally accepted that, she’d give Charity a regretful hug and send her on her way. Then in the tradition that’d started somewhere around his eighteenth birthday, she’d begin her search anew.
Unlike some of the previous contenders, Charity didn’t seem likely to hide naked in his bedroom, so he’d deemed it wise a few months back to make nice and put off the next round for as long as possible. With that in mind, and knowing it would go further than simply an apology to his mother, Mitch offered Charity an apology as well.
“I hear you’ve been busy on a new project,” he added. “Is this for your own work or for your father’s?”
“A little of both, actually. I’ve been researching physical fitness standards for grade-school children,” she said, her expression pleased. “I’d love to hear your thoughts on implementing military-style fitness programs.”
Mitch could just imagine a seven-year-old’s reaction to his PE teacher calling him a pansy-ass and ordering him to drop and
He wanted to start at her toes and kiss his way up those legs, draw his tongue along her smooth thighs, then bury his head between them and lose himself in her taste.
He wanted to see that body poised over his, watch her face as he entered her, as she rode him hard, sending them both into shuddering explosions of pleasure.
Yeah.
He wanted that.
Then he wanted to do it again.
A sharp jab in the ribs yanked Mitch out of his fantasy and into the present.
“What the—?” He shot a scowl at Romeo.
And got an unrepentant smile in return. The other man tilted his head. A tiny move that silently communicated a myriad of words.
Busted
,
Pay attention
and
What’s your problem?
came through loud and clear. Layered over them all was an amused sort of anticipation, as if his friend were looking forward to whatever was going to come next.
“Mitchell, are you listening to me?”
Crap.
Mitch grimaced, glancing from the forgotten fork in his hand to his plate. Sliced turkey, stuffing, vegetables, mound of mashed potatoes swimming in gravy.
Soft music created a classical backdrop to the polite murmur of voices, the rich aroma of an equally classic meal filling the air. The only-at-family-dinners-pressure of a tie around his throat intensified for a second.
Damn it, Mitch thought. Romeo was right—he
was
busted.
Mitch shifted mental gears and gave thanks that his mother served Thanksgiving dinner at a linen-covered table. It’d hide the physical evidence of his fantasy for the few extra moments it took his body to change gears, too.
Rearranging his expression, Mitch turned to offer the elegant woman across from him a conciliatory smile. As carefully presented and thoughtfully put-together as the tasteful meal and understated decor, Denise Donovan prided herself on her dinner parties. It didn’t matter if it was a fancy banquet for the military brass or a quiet family dinner—she had expectations.
Mitch wasn’t sure if he’d ever failed to meet them before. But he definitely had now.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he offered in his most sincere tone. “I was thinking about something else and didn’t hear what you said.”
“Obviously.” Her eyes flashed with rare anger at her only child. It was clear she was biting her tongue to hold herself back from lecturing him on his lack of manners.
She’d have had a point.
The family’s Thanksgiving dinner was probably not the best place for him to be wondering how many ways he could lick his way to the center of a very hot blonde.
Especially not with his prospective fiancée sitting right there.
His gaze shifting to the pretty brunette to his mother’s right, Mitch smiled his apology. For being inattentive, he tacked on mentally. Not for the fantasy. As nice as Charity Winslow was—and even with Denise Donovan’s perfect-daughter-in-law seal of approval—she wasn’t his type.
Mitch knew once his mother finally accepted that, she’d give Charity a regretful hug and send her on her way. Then in the tradition that’d started somewhere around his eighteenth birthday, she’d begin her search anew.
Unlike some of the previous contenders, Charity didn’t seem likely to hide naked in his bedroom, so he’d deemed it wise a few months back to make nice and put off the next round for as long as possible. With that in mind, and knowing it would go further than simply an apology to his mother, Mitch offered Charity an apology as well.
“I hear you’ve been busy on a new project,” he added. “Is this for your own work or for your father’s?”
“A little of both, actually. I’ve been researching physical fitness standards for grade-school children,” she said, her expression pleased. “I’d love to hear your thoughts on implementing military-style fitness programs.”
Mitch could just imagine a seven-year-old’s reaction to his PE teacher calling him a pansy-ass and ordering him to drop and
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