Crickitt snapped to attention, mouth leaving his with an audible pop as she straightened her spine.
Too far, Shane realized a second too late.
Moving his hands to her waist, he inhaled a ragged breath, lust fogging his brain and stalling his thoughts. The heat in Crickitt’s eyes dimmed, replaced by shuttered, shell-shocked awareness. He licked his lips, an apology forming in the depths of his throat.
She beat him to it.
“I—I’m so sorry.” Touching her kiss-swollen lips, she surveyed his open shirt before turning mournful eyes up at him. “I—there’s n-no excuse—,” she stuttered, fussing over his shirt buttons.
She was apologizing to him? Shane watched her jerky movements, amused by her clumsy attempt to dress him and regain her composure. He tamped down a budding smile as his hands left her baby-smooth skin. Couldn’t she see there was no way to go back? Not now, not after that game-changing kiss. Brows meeting in the middle in deep concentration, she tried but failed to pull the last button through the hole. He stilled her hands with one of his, pressing them to his chest. His heart gave a dangerous leap as she met his eyes. She looked cute and slightly muddled with her hair tousled in the pattern of his fingers. And again, he felt powerless to resist her.
“Shane,” she whispered.
He didn’t let her finish, trapping her words with his lips. He caught the back of her neck with one palm but held her gently, giving her every opportunity to pull away. She didn’t. He swept his tongue into her mouth in triumph, stroking her for long, breath-stealing seconds, until he felt her go limp beneath him, her hands bunching the front of his shirt weakly.
He pulled away and found her looking up at him drowsily, her eyelids at half-mast. “You’re a great kisser,” she murmured. Then a hue of pink stole her cheeks, and her eyes went wide. “Sorry.”
Shane allowed himself to laugh. “Would you stop apologizing? You’re making me feel bad.” He placed a final, full-lipped kiss square on the center of her mouth. “I should have done that a long time ago.”
A vision assaulted him: her beneath him, naked, willing, tangled in his bedsheets. Reluctantly, he pushed the thought away. She could be brimming with regret for all he knew. He was her boss, signed her paychecks, made her schedule…special-ordered the desk he was sitting on. And while it would only take the slightest nudge to convince her to come home with him, he didn’t want her regretting that, either.
“I…guess I should get home,” Crickitt said, straightening her clothing and glancing around as if she was lost.
He heard the question in her voice, felt the longing mirroring his own. She was asking if she should get home. Giving him every opportunity to suggest she come home with him. And he wanted to, so badly. Wanted to pretend there was nothing standing between them. But if they were going to do this, it had to be handled delicately. He scanned her face, her soft features. She needed to be handled delicately.
“Yeah. Me, too,” he said, sympathizing with the flash of disappointment in her eyes.
With superhuman strength, he left her side, taking one leaden step after another. Away from her, he didn’t feel stronger, only weaker. And filled with so much regret he could hardly breathe.
You’re doing the right thing.
“I’d better be,” he growled under his breath.
Chapter 17
Seconds turned into minutes as Crickitt came to the slow realization that Shane was giving her some space. Soon she’d have to face him again and relive the moment she jumped him like a cheetah on a baby gazelle.
She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. That would be twice now. Twice you’ve thrown yourself at your boss.
Only this time, she’d lost her composure at work. At work. The one place she should be able to control her emotions.
If not for Ronald’s poor timing she would be at home, nuking a frozen dinner and settling in for a Texas Chainsaw Massacre marathon. Despite what had just happened between her and Shane, Ronald’s final words before she hung up reverberated around her like a Sunday-morning church bell. She didn’t know if she could forget it or ever forgive him for saying it.
“Still reeling, I see?”
She jerked her attention to the doorway. Shane leaned against it, strong and solid, his black leather bag hooked on one shoulder. Faint red scratches decorated his neck, and a thread missing its button poked from the collar of his shirt.
My gosh. I attacked him.
Feeling a swell of guilt, she opened her mouth to apologize but swallowed it. Still, she couldn’t keep from muttering, “Your neck…”