Page 61 of The Hot Shot
I shove my hands into my back jeans pockets. “James says it’s very 1950s domestic.”
Finn chuckles.
“But this is the only thing I do that can be considered domestic,” I warn. “So don’t expect me to greet you with dinners or—”
“Cocktails?” Finn supplies, pulling a beer out of the ice bucket. Fuck.
“Yeah...”
He laughs again, and then swoops in, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Relax, Chester. I’m not expecting anything. I won’t be asking you to fetch my slippers. Although, if you want to...” He wags his brows. “I won’t try to stop you.”
“Asshat.” I give his arm a slap. It’s like warm granite.
With an expansive sigh of contentment, Finn plops onto the couch, twists the top off his beer and takes a long drink. He sighs again and rests his head against the back of the couch. His lids lower like a relaxed cat’s. “Gotta admit,” he says in a near purr. “Coming home has never been this good.”
“Glad I could—” I yelp as he takes hold of my good wrist and tugs me onto the couch with him. “Easy there, Superman.”
Finn cuddles me up next to him, draping his arm over my shoulders. “Sorry. But you were standing there all twitchy and shifty like you’d been caught stealing or something.”
The laughter in his voice is unmistakable. I elbow him, trying to ignore that his fingers have threaded through my hair, lightly stroking the strands.
“You colored your hair again,” he murmurs, playing with the tips that now have glints of teal, gold, green, and magenta throughout the black.
A shiver of pure pleasure goes through me. His body is warm and solid, and I’d like nothing better than to rest against it without care.
“It’s called an oil slick effect.” Why am I telling him this? He doesn’t care about color techniques.
But he lifts a whole section and slowly lets it sift through his fingers. “It brings out the green in your eyes.”
It feels good. Too good. And wrong. I don’t cuddle with James. I’ve never wanted to. I don’t cuddle with anyone. Ever.
What we’re doing here is dangerous. It would be so easy to turn my head and nuzzle the heated hollow of his throat, to lick a path up to the curve of his jaw and the soft turn of his lower lip. It would be as easy as taking a breath.
I’m living with him now. Hitting on my host is a definite faux pas. And stupid. I edge away, causing Finn to frown slightly.
“Hey, Chess?”
I don’t like the quiet, serious tone of his voice. “Yes?”
“When are we—?”
The doorbell rings. We both flinch as if snapping out of a daze, and then Finn glares at the door. “Who the hell?”
“You don’t get random visitors?” I tease, rising.
Finn sits forward on the couch. “They have to get past the doorman. My assistant Charlie has clearance, but I happen to know he’s hanging out with Rolondo and Gruben right now.”
The bell rings again.
“I’ll get it,” I tell him. “You have your beer.Dear.”
He smirks at that, but stands. “No, way. I don’t know who the hell got past security. I’m answering the door.”
We both go, bickering along the way. Which is ridiculous, but I can’t seem to let it go; I have this weird sense that Finn shouldn’t answer the door.
But he does, swinging it open as if he’ll gladly pummel anyone who’s here with ill intent. That all changes when he sees the woman standing in the hall.
At his side, I halt, my skin prickling in shock. Because the woman is stunning.
