“Oh, and you don’t listen to me,” I added.
More grinning then, “Do I have anything going for me?”
“On the very rare occasion you can be sweet, you’re a cuddler and you carried me out of a burning building. Those are the pros.”
“I’m a cuddler?”
“You spoon.”
His brows went up. “That’s important enough to put on your list?”
“Uh… yeah.”
He stared at me, grinning nearly at a smile then he noted, “Fuckin’ ridiculous what women think is important.”
My eyes got squinty and I snapped, “Con!”
The grin became a smile when he whispered, “You forgot a pro, baby.”
“No,” I corrected. “So far, that list is exhaustive.”
His hand in my nightshirt moved up and the warmth of it cupped my breast. I sucked in air and stilled, then melted and let out the air on a quiet gasp when the skin of his palm slid across my nipple.
“Definitely a pro,” he muttered while watching my face then his head dropped and he kissed me. This was a triple threat because his tongue in my mouth, his hand at my breast (now with thumb action that was nice) and his hard, heavy body pinning mine to the bed was irresistible.
He was right, definitely a pro.
His mouth released mine, his thumb stopped its brilliant torture and his fingers cupped my breast and I found my fingers curled around the back of his head, my other arm tight around his back and one of my calves had moved to hook around the back of his thigh.
I was gazing up at him firm in the knowledge that I wanted to discover quick when he grinned and his warm hand gave my breast a firm squeeze.
“See what I mean, baby?” he whispered. “Definitely pro.”
I blinked. Then I stiffened.
Then I stated, “And see what I mean, baby? Definitely arrogant.”
He did that manly, deep, amused chuckle, dipped his head, kissed the indentation at the base of my throat, his hand disappeared from my breast and he rolled off me, taking me with him. We were on our feet beside the bed, his arms around me, before I could blink.
“You need to work, get shit done,” he declared. “Tonight I need you focused.”
“On what?” I asked.
His face got closer and his arms got tighter. “On me.”
Oh boy.
“My parents are staying here,” I reminded him.
“I got a place,” he reminded me.
His lair. Hmm. Another shiver which he felt and I knew it because it caused him to grin another grin.
His arms gave me a squeeze. “Work, then tonight I add to the right side of your list.”
I opened my mouth to tell him I should make my decision without my mind muddled by his superhuman sexual powers but I didn’t get a word out. His head bent, his mouth touched mine and then, poof! he was gone.
I swayed a second without his strong arms around me and his solid body to rest against. Then I turned to stare at the bedroom door.
Then I muttered, “I hate it when he does that.”
But I didn’t. If I was honest, I thought it was cool.
Chapter Eleven
Dress. Heels. Focus.
I was scoring through work again after getting eggs, bacon and coffee from Meredith; sharing in her delight that it was “only the living room, honey, and I’ve been after your Dad for months for a new couch” and “I really needed a few days off, so now I get to put my feet up” (told you she always looks on the bright side); saying hello to the commandos; having a shower; accepting delivery of my laptop, bag, purse and jacket direct from the “scene” from another of Hawk’s commandos; and holing myself in my office.
Cam and Tracy had called. Cam because she heard talk at the Station about the firebombing. Tracy because she heard about the firebombing from Cam.
Troy didn’t call and this was either because he was nursing his wounds or because Cam and Tracy had kept this news from him because they thought he was probably nursing his wounds.
I gave some time to considering calling him but ended up deciding to give him time to nurse his wounds. Or at least this was what I told myself I was doing. Really, I was chicken.
Everyone knew that I was no go zone for chitchats outside of initial briefings about my childhood home getting firebombed, all of which were done. They knew I was about work and focus. So when my cell phone rang, I was surprised.
Then I figured it was Troy.
I picked it up, looked at the display and it said, “Hawk calling.”
I stared at it. I didn’t have his number programmed in my phone mainly because I didn’t have his number.
I flipped it open and put it to my ear wondering if Tracy was playing a practical joke and, if so, how did she pull it off and, more importantly, why?
“Hello?”
“Babe,” Hawk replied.
Nope, not Tracy playing a practical joke.
“Hawk?”
“Little black dress, high heels, seven thirty,” he stated.
I blinked. Then I asked, “What?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight what?”
“Tonight, you in a little black dress and high heels. I’ll be there at seven thirty.”
Ohmigod! Hawk was asking me out on a date!
My belly got squishy.
“Are you asking me out on a date?” I asked just to confirm.
“Sweet Pea, I’ve been f**kin’ you for a year and a half.”
My belly stopped being squishy.
“I know.”
“So no, I’m not askin’. I’m tellin’ you, dress, heels, I’ll be there at seven thirty.”
Uh… what?
“So, you’re not asking me out on a date, you’re telling me we’re going out on a date,” I guessed though I knew it was accurately.
“That’s about it,” he replied.
“You can’t tell me we’re going on a date!” I snapped.
“Just did, babe.”
“Con,” I muttered because that was a serious con.
He chuckled his deep, manly, amused chuckle, then he ordered, “Get work done, I want your focus on me, not work.”
“I don’t think I’ll have time for a date. I’m buried.” This was a lie. With the work I got done last night and today, I was catching up. I totally had time for a date and I had a life creed that stated that any opportunity to wear a little black dress was to be taken up, no ifs, ands, or buts. However, I was making an exception.
“Was made pretty clear last night even before I fought a fire side-by-side with your old man that I had their blessing, Gwen, don’t think they’d step in if I dressed you myself and carried you kicking and screaming to my car.”