got up.”
“I don’t sleep in sweatpants, but I pulled them on before coming out here,” he said, grumpily.
“What do you sleep in?” she asked, her eyes tracking down over his body just as thoroughly and slowly as his had studied hers.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nice.”
The way she said it and the way her eyes felt on him was nice, that was for sure.
He frowned. “And you sleep in that?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“What do—” He stopped before playing right into her hands. Barely.
She smiled and sipped again. “It’s a good thing I’m not your type, don’t you think?”
Christ.
His body—and his imagination—clearly didn’t give a damn that she was a brunette. Or that her breasts were small and perky instead of voluptuous like he typically went for. Or that she was at least three inches taller than most of the women he was attracted to.
Or that she hadn’t baked for him this morning.
Women who spent the night always cooked for him in the morning.
“You’re not,” he said, with an apologetic shrug.
“I know. You told me.” She put one hand back on the counter behind her.
The motion pressed her breast forward against the barely there covering.
Conner didn’t groan. But his attempt to keep from groaning came out as a strange grunt that he then had to cover with a cough.
“And it’s a good thing,” she reiterated, “because if I was, we’d never get anything else done during these two months I’m living here.”
“Anything else ?”
“Besides sex, I mean.”
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Anything else? Really? He’d asked that? He’d known exactly what she’d been talking about.
“We’d be going at it on every surface in this place. We’d never make it to work. We’d lose our jobs. It is a very good thing that I’m not your type.”
She rinsed her cup in the sink before setting it in the top rack of the dishwasher.
Conner imagined taking her over and over again on every surface in the place.
“Did you make something with cinnamon this morning?” he asked as she started to leave the kitchen.
Maybe she’d put on body lotion that smelled like cinnamon.
She stopped. “No, why?”
“You didn’t bake?”
Her eyebrows went up. “No.”
“Did you light a cinnamon candle?” He could swear he smelled cinnamon.
“No.”
“Do you smell cinnamon?”
“Right now?” she asked, then shook her head. “No.” She frowned. “Do you?”
“Yes. It fucking smells like cinnamon rolls in this kitchen.”
She tipped her head to one side. “Are you having a stroke?” she asked, looking mildly concerned.
“I don’t believe so,” he said dryly.
“But you smell cinnamon.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not actually here?”
He sighed. “Apparently.”
“Did you hit your head last night? Do you suffer from migraines?”
“No and no.” He was evidently just crazy.
She shook her head, and damned if she didn’t look like she felt sorry for him.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Girls always cook for you the morning after. So you automatically woke up thinking ‘there’s a girl in my house’ and expecting cinnamon rolls.”
Conner stared at her. Holy hell. If that was true he was…fucked. And more than slightly pathetic.
“No. It smells like cinnamon in here,” he insisted. Because the other alternative was that he was crazy. And maybe a bit of an asshole.
She smiled. “I actually make amazing cinnamon rolls,” she said. “But,” she added with a shrug, “they’re probably not the type you like.”
Then she sashayed her sweet little ass out of the kitchen.
And Conner finally let out the groan that he’d been holding back since she’d walked in.
Living with Conner for two months was going to be fun. The bed in his guest room was amazing, his apartment was clean and comfortable. And it did her female ego good to know that she could affect him.
She didn’t want to do anything about it, but it was nice to know that a guy like
“I don’t sleep in sweatpants, but I pulled them on before coming out here,” he said, grumpily.
“What do you sleep in?” she asked, her eyes tracking down over his body just as thoroughly and slowly as his had studied hers.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nice.”
The way she said it and the way her eyes felt on him was nice, that was for sure.
He frowned. “And you sleep in that?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“What do—” He stopped before playing right into her hands. Barely.
She smiled and sipped again. “It’s a good thing I’m not your type, don’t you think?”
Christ.
His body—and his imagination—clearly didn’t give a damn that she was a brunette. Or that her breasts were small and perky instead of voluptuous like he typically went for. Or that she was at least three inches taller than most of the women he was attracted to.
Or that she hadn’t baked for him this morning.
Women who spent the night always cooked for him in the morning.
“You’re not,” he said, with an apologetic shrug.
“I know. You told me.” She put one hand back on the counter behind her.
The motion pressed her breast forward against the barely there covering.
Conner didn’t groan. But his attempt to keep from groaning came out as a strange grunt that he then had to cover with a cough.
“And it’s a good thing,” she reiterated, “because if I was, we’d never get anything else done during these two months I’m living here.”
“Anything else ?”
“Besides sex, I mean.”
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Anything else? Really? He’d asked that? He’d known exactly what she’d been talking about.
“We’d be going at it on every surface in this place. We’d never make it to work. We’d lose our jobs. It is a very good thing that I’m not your type.”
She rinsed her cup in the sink before setting it in the top rack of the dishwasher.
Conner imagined taking her over and over again on every surface in the place.
“Did you make something with cinnamon this morning?” he asked as she started to leave the kitchen.
Maybe she’d put on body lotion that smelled like cinnamon.
She stopped. “No, why?”
“You didn’t bake?”
Her eyebrows went up. “No.”
“Did you light a cinnamon candle?” He could swear he smelled cinnamon.
“No.”
“Do you smell cinnamon?”
“Right now?” she asked, then shook her head. “No.” She frowned. “Do you?”
“Yes. It fucking smells like cinnamon rolls in this kitchen.”
She tipped her head to one side. “Are you having a stroke?” she asked, looking mildly concerned.
“I don’t believe so,” he said dryly.
“But you smell cinnamon.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not actually here?”
He sighed. “Apparently.”
“Did you hit your head last night? Do you suffer from migraines?”
“No and no.” He was evidently just crazy.
She shook her head, and damned if she didn’t look like she felt sorry for him.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Girls always cook for you the morning after. So you automatically woke up thinking ‘there’s a girl in my house’ and expecting cinnamon rolls.”
Conner stared at her. Holy hell. If that was true he was…fucked. And more than slightly pathetic.
“No. It smells like cinnamon in here,” he insisted. Because the other alternative was that he was crazy. And maybe a bit of an asshole.
She smiled. “I actually make amazing cinnamon rolls,” she said. “But,” she added with a shrug, “they’re probably not the type you like.”
Then she sashayed her sweet little ass out of the kitchen.
And Conner finally let out the groan that he’d been holding back since she’d walked in.
Living with Conner for two months was going to be fun. The bed in his guest room was amazing, his apartment was clean and comfortable. And it did her female ego good to know that she could affect him.
She didn’t want to do anything about it, but it was nice to know that a guy like
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