Page 80 of Sweet Distraction

She’s standing in the doorway, and she’s not in the same athleisure outfits she’s usually in with her trademark braid.

Not in the least.

The black dress she has on? It clings to every dip and curve and thought I shouldn’t be having.

Her legs? They look a mile long in those heels, and I’m not ashamed to say I have immediate thoughts about what they’d look like digging into my ass as I fuck her.

Her lips? They’re painted a sinful shade of red, and the way she looks at me says she doesn’t have a shred of regret in her choices.

“Rocket? You still there?” Sandra asks.

“Uh, yeah . . . I have to go though. Something just came up.” Like my cock. I hang up before she can ask why.

My dick aches. My fingers itch to touch. My lips beg to taste.

So much for anticipation.

This is full-blown torture. Like skintight, lipstick-wearing, legs-bared torture.

My swallow gets stuck over the desire lodged in my throat. “Going somewhere?”

Her slow crawl of a smile is a temptation in and of itself. “Yep. Tonight’s my night off. Remember. We talked about it last week. I suggested you call over Quinlan or Hendrix if you couldn’t handle it alone. It’s on the schedule I gave you.”

“Schedule?” There was a schedule?

“Yes. We talked—”

“We did.” I shake my head. “I’m having a hard time thinking anything at the moment with you standing there looking like that.”

“Oh.”

The way those lips shock in a puckered O have even more thoughts springing up.

“I thought you said you were going out for coffee . . . or something.” Like knitting. Or dog sitting. Or anything that doesn’t involve that dress.

“Plans changed.”

No shit. Plans can unchange real fucking quickly.

“So a book club meeting?” I ask.

She grins. “Not tonight. Tonight we’re going out.”

“Looking like that?”

I’m doing everything in my power to keep my eyes on hers, but they keep dragging lower.

That dress . . . Jesus.

She glances down, then runs her hands slowly down the front of her dress—right where my hands want to be.

“Why? Is something wrong with it? Did I get deodorant—”

“No. God, no.” My voice breaks and gives a hint at what my insides feel like.

What’s it feel like to want, Rock?

We stare at each other.