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“I’d like that,” the feminine voice spears into my chest and my eyes snap up. Holy Holiday Heaven. Standing before me is a lush-as-fuck angel with evergreen eyes, berry-red lips, and a body I’d write to Santa for.
I want this woman. Correction, need this woman. And if the flush in her cheeks and sparkle in her eye is any indication, she wants me too. I just need to make her need me. Make her burn from the inside out, incinerating whatever walls she might have, and allow me access to every part of her being.
Her wide green eyes meet mine and, for a long second, I wonder if throwing her over my shoulder and walking out of here would really be that big of a deal.
And I’m glad because it gives me something to do with my hands. Stack dirty pans? Sure! Anything to keep myself from happy crying over an arguably underwhelming compliment. Or worse yet, tearing my dress off and climbing the unsuspecting Michael like a cat on a Christmas tree—all claws and no finesse.
