“I thought your mom would be cooking for us.” I laugh harder. Then he kisses me. This one is as good as the first one we had. Actually it might be better, which I didn't know was possible. I try and pull him more into me, but he backs away, leaving me breathless.
“I wasn't done.” I lick my lips.
“Neither am I, but I have dinner to make. Important things are on the line here.” If Corby is only trying to get into my pants, he’s putting a lot of effort into it.
“Show me what you got then.” I pick up my wine, taking another sip. He lifts his brows at the double meaning of my chosen words.
He doesn't have to show me. I’ve already made up my mind. It looks like I’m moving in with Corby O’Neal.
Chapter Thirteen
Corby
‘“I thought you said you weren’t going to try to get into my pants,” Glory says as she stares at the one bed I have in this house.
“I said that you didn’t have to sleep with me if you didn’t want to but that I wouldn’t stop trying to get you to see the light.” I walk over to the closet and pull out another pillow, tossing it onto the mattress. “The bed’s a king, so there’s plenty of room for both of us.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ll sleep on the bed if you stay on top of the covers.”
“What if I get cold?” I won’t because my body’s like a furnace most nights, but she could feel sorry for me and let me under if I play my cards right.
“Wear an extra sweatshirt.” She’s unsympathetic.
I laugh and toss her a T-shirt and some boxers. “Until we pack up your shit, you can wear this.”
She picks up the clothes with some hesitation. “I didn’t say that I was moving in.”
“‘Course not.” It’s clear that I need to tread lightly with Glory. She might be curious, but she’s not ready. “There’s an extra toothbrush in the medicine chest. I’m going to check my emails.” I leave and go down to my office to give her some privacy. I don’t check my emails or even open my laptop. Instead, I stare out the window at the copse of evergreens and wonder how in the hell I’m going to be able to keep my hands to myself while lying in bed next to her. Staying on top of the covers is no solution. I’d just tear those off, and then we’d be two bodies sweaty and chests heaving lying on the mattress with nothing more than my clothes separating us.
I meant it when I told her that she could stay even if she didn’t want to ride my dick until she was orgasming, so that means I need to tuck my lust into some box and shove it into the deepest recesses of my mind. Should be easy. That’s where my creativity spark is hiding. I scrub a hand across my face and check the clock. Fifteen minutes have passed. She should be ready for me now.
Before I return to the bedroom, I dip into the kitchen, rummage around in a drawer, and find another toothbrush, still in its plastic packaging. I rip it open, brush my teeth, and wash up. When I get to the bedroom, the lights are off, and there’s a lump in the bed. Make that several lumps.
“You invite a whole party into bed with you while I was gone?” I toss my hoodie into the corner of the room and stretch out on the unoccupied side of the bed.
“I found some pillows,” she explains.
I throw my arm out and pat the mound of cushions. “I didn’t realize I had this many.”
“I may have stolen some from the living room.”
“Are you that worried?”
“No...” Her voice trails off. I wait, my hands folded across my chest so I don’t start pawing at her. I can smell her. She’s sweet and warm. The pillows need to go so I can burrow my nose in the crook of her neck and get a deep drag directly from the source.
“Maybe it’s me I’m worried about,” she finally says.
I corral my galloping fantasies and roll over on one side so I can see her even though the illumination isn’t good enough for me to make out any facial expressions. “What are you worried about? I’ll be careful. I won’t hurt you.”
“Physically you mean? I’m not worried about that. I’m—” She bites her lip. “It’s just that what if I fall for you? You’re some big shot from the city and I’m a small-town newspaper reporter that has to write dating tips to make money.”
“What if I fall for you?” I counter. I’ve already fallen, I think. I’m certainly on my knees. “I’m just a washed-up novelist who hasn’t written a good word in about eighteen months.”