Page 44 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"I can't stop thinking about that coat closet."

Then he's kissing me, and it's nothing like the champagne-blamed gala kiss.

This is slower, deeper, like he's been calculating this exact moment and wants to get it perfectly right.

I make some embarrassing sound against his mouth as he walks us backward until I hit my desk. Papers scatter—including, ironically, my draft email about logical approaches to matchmaking.

"Wait," I manage as he trails kisses down my neck. "The food?—"

"Will get cold," he finishes, then does something with his teeth that short-circuits my brain. "Very inefficient."

"Completely unprofessional," I agree, but I'm already pushing his jacket off his shoulders.

He lifts me onto my desk, stepping between my thighs like he's been mapping this trajectory for days. Knowing him, he probably has been.

To say that this has been all I’ve been able to think about, to dream about, would be the world’s biggest understatement of the century.

Since that coat closet, all I’ve wanted to do is kiss that version of Grayson Dixon again.

It’s insane. On one hand, the man operates like a machine. Icy. Arithmetic. Damn near sterile.

But on the other hand…

There’s a side of Grayson Dixon that’s all heat. All scorching kisses and hot hands and warm lips.

A side that is seductively addicting.

And in my mind as Grayson's lips meet mine, the world outside my office doesn't just fade; it explodes into a fiery inferno of sensation. The snowstorm, the yodeling urban explorer, the draft email—all of it is incinerated by the raw, primal heat that surges between us.

I could see us making this kiss so much more than a kiss. It could be a claim. It could be a brand.

It could be a sign that all I’ve been looking for is right here in Grayson’s capable fingers and hands.

Hands that grip my hips, pulling me against him hard and fast.

Hands that make quick work of my blouse, tearing it open to expose more skin for his hot, hungry mouth.

Hands that slip between my thighs, as his fingers find the heat and wetness there with unerring accuracy.

Hands with longer fingers that stroke and tease and press until I’m positively screaming.

Until I’m…

I gasp, coming out of the fantasy as another mechanicalwhir sounds from the window. This time, it’s accompanied by what sounds like... yodeling?

"Is he..." Grayson pulls back slightly, eyes dark. "Is your window-scaling friend serenading us?"

I exhale.

"Apparently he's also an amateur Alpine folk singer." I drop my forehead to Grayson’s shoulder with a groan. "Dani really knows how to pick them."

The yodeling increases in volume and complexity.

I straighten, trying to fix my clothes. “We might wanna…”

“Yeah. Yes. Say no more,” he agrees, but he doesn't step back. "Though I feel compelled to point out that my apartment has significantly fewer interruptions."

My pulse jumps. "Is that a statistical observation?"

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