Read Online Resisting Nick (Wicked in Wellington) by Kris Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kris Pearson
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zipper of her red top down a few inches so a little skin showed.
Just because the weather’s warmer now .
She turned back to the machine. Seconds later the hairs lifting on her scalp told her Nick had arrived. She was now so tuned in to him that his almost silent tread on the carpet and the slight movement of the air in the room were enough. The warm weight of his hands settled on her hips as she stood facing the machine. “Don’t make me spill this,” she warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
One hand stroked upward, firm and sure over her spine and shoulder. Every inch of her he caressed came alight with pinpoints of pleasure, and she pressed backward like a cat seeking comfort. He squeezed her nape, a small but possessive gesture, and she turned. He stood far too close, hand now sliding to cradle the side of her face. His thumb grazed over her lower lip, backward, forward, in a languid slide. Sammie closed her eyes.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
He dropped a kiss on her brow and released her. “Come and see my house, then. The weather’s behaving.”
“As long as you do too...”
“No guarantees there.”
She pushed a coffee toward him, and he grinned as he took it from her. “You trying to keep my hands occupied, Sammie?”
“Something like that,” she muttered, picking up the other mug and trailing him back to his office.
Big architectural drawings now covered the low table. Nick squatted in front of them and set his coffee down. Sammie stayed a step behind, checking out the way his jeans cupped his butt and the white T-shirt stretched over the long muscles of his back.
Sure, he had all the gear and the know-how to sculpt himself to perfection, but that perfection was a knockout. If she hadn’t been holding her coffee, her hands might have gone wandering in return.
He pulled a yellowed and battered sheet of paper from beneath the others, and she drew closer.
“Original frontage,” he said, pointing to the carefully detailed veranda with its turned timber posts and railings. “She still has that same door, but the paint’s long gone.” He stroked a finger over the intricate panels. “I’ve bought a wreck, Sammie, but a wreck with real potential. Until a couple of years ago the farmer who owned it used the ground floor for storing hay bales and stock feed.”
She exclaimed in distress and bent lower to examine the drawings. The house was a two-storied double-bay villa, once very grand. The floors were traditionally laid out with a central passageway and staircase. The architect’s signature and the date 1904 were appended in ornate copperplate script.
“Hay bales? What a travesty.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “You won’t think that when you see it.” He shuffled a collection of much newer plans on top of the old drawing. “We’ll take these with us and you can compare them with what currently exists. Then if there are any queries you’ll be up to speed.”
“You’re putting a lot of trust in me,” she said doubtfully.
“Nah, you’ll cope. You’ve got a good brain. I just need you to use your common sense and deflect some of the rubbish calls away from me.”
He bounced up from his squat, and her eyes measured the length and strength of his legs. What would they feel like pressed naked against her own? Her throat constricted.
“Drink up and we’ll beat the rush-hour traffic onto the main coast road.”
She sipped. “So what are you having done?”
“Huge refurb. All the original house needs a lot of TLC. But I’m building on at the back, which is where the views are. That area’s wasted on utility rooms and bedrooms.” He sent her a hint of a grin. “Who needs a view from a bedroom? You’re either sleeping or too busy enjoying yourself to stare out the windows.”
Sammie coughed on her gulp of coffee, picturing Nick’s long sun-striped back rising and falling against white sheets as he made love to some fortunate woman.
Just because the weather’s warmer now .
She turned back to the machine. Seconds later the hairs lifting on her scalp told her Nick had arrived. She was now so tuned in to him that his almost silent tread on the carpet and the slight movement of the air in the room were enough. The warm weight of his hands settled on her hips as she stood facing the machine. “Don’t make me spill this,” she warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
One hand stroked upward, firm and sure over her spine and shoulder. Every inch of her he caressed came alight with pinpoints of pleasure, and she pressed backward like a cat seeking comfort. He squeezed her nape, a small but possessive gesture, and she turned. He stood far too close, hand now sliding to cradle the side of her face. His thumb grazed over her lower lip, backward, forward, in a languid slide. Sammie closed her eyes.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
He dropped a kiss on her brow and released her. “Come and see my house, then. The weather’s behaving.”
“As long as you do too...”
“No guarantees there.”
She pushed a coffee toward him, and he grinned as he took it from her. “You trying to keep my hands occupied, Sammie?”
“Something like that,” she muttered, picking up the other mug and trailing him back to his office.
Big architectural drawings now covered the low table. Nick squatted in front of them and set his coffee down. Sammie stayed a step behind, checking out the way his jeans cupped his butt and the white T-shirt stretched over the long muscles of his back.
Sure, he had all the gear and the know-how to sculpt himself to perfection, but that perfection was a knockout. If she hadn’t been holding her coffee, her hands might have gone wandering in return.
He pulled a yellowed and battered sheet of paper from beneath the others, and she drew closer.
“Original frontage,” he said, pointing to the carefully detailed veranda with its turned timber posts and railings. “She still has that same door, but the paint’s long gone.” He stroked a finger over the intricate panels. “I’ve bought a wreck, Sammie, but a wreck with real potential. Until a couple of years ago the farmer who owned it used the ground floor for storing hay bales and stock feed.”
She exclaimed in distress and bent lower to examine the drawings. The house was a two-storied double-bay villa, once very grand. The floors were traditionally laid out with a central passageway and staircase. The architect’s signature and the date 1904 were appended in ornate copperplate script.
“Hay bales? What a travesty.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “You won’t think that when you see it.” He shuffled a collection of much newer plans on top of the old drawing. “We’ll take these with us and you can compare them with what currently exists. Then if there are any queries you’ll be up to speed.”
“You’re putting a lot of trust in me,” she said doubtfully.
“Nah, you’ll cope. You’ve got a good brain. I just need you to use your common sense and deflect some of the rubbish calls away from me.”
He bounced up from his squat, and her eyes measured the length and strength of his legs. What would they feel like pressed naked against her own? Her throat constricted.
“Drink up and we’ll beat the rush-hour traffic onto the main coast road.”
She sipped. “So what are you having done?”
“Huge refurb. All the original house needs a lot of TLC. But I’m building on at the back, which is where the views are. That area’s wasted on utility rooms and bedrooms.” He sent her a hint of a grin. “Who needs a view from a bedroom? You’re either sleeping or too busy enjoying yourself to stare out the windows.”
Sammie coughed on her gulp of coffee, picturing Nick’s long sun-striped back rising and falling against white sheets as he made love to some fortunate woman.
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