Page 36 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

Except now one hand skims up my neck, into my hair, fingers sliding through. I close my eyes. A shiver cascades down my spine, like my body doesn’t know who she is.

“Don’t flinch,” Kat whispers, her lips brushing mine.

I don’t. All I do is press my mouth against hers.

This is not a kiss. This is an arrangement, two bodies arranged together. It looks like a kiss but it’s only a pose. Even though my mouth is on hers, and hers is on mine. If it were a kiss she’d move a little. Tilt her head. Push imperceptibly harder against me, maybe make a soft noise and curl her fingers in my hair.

If it were a kiss I’d want those things. I’d want to move in, slide my mouth against hers, feel the give in her spine as she accepts. I’d skim a hand up her back and sink my fingers into her thick, dark hair, and tilt her head back. If this were a kiss she’d make a soft, throaty noise when I did and her lips would part and the kiss would deepen and I’d realize that she smells like vanilla and honeysuckle, tastes a little like ginger.

My fingers curl in her hair. She tastes like ginger.

If this were a kiss I’d like it. I’d be shocked at how soft she is, at how warm she feels under my hands. I’d find myself with my thumb on her jaw, my hand in her hair, and when she tilted her head my teeth would scrape her lip and I’d lick the spot as an apology. I’d make a noise I’ve never heard before, raw and surprising—

The sound hangs in the air as the door swings open. Meckler’s voice stops, but I don’t pull back and neither does Kat. If anything, her hand tightens in my hair and there’s one last, tiny thrill down my back as I think I want him on his knees.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, and I pull away from Kat like I’m surprised that he’s there. I offer him a grin that’s half sheepish, half smug, and run a hand through my hair as Kat’s fingers fall to my shoulders.

“Didn’t even hear you come in,” I say, as friendly as friendly can be. “Nice office. You forget something?”

Meckler’s trying to look nonchalant, but it’s buried under a layer of discomfort and prickling anger. He looks from me to Kat and back. I notice his right hand flexes once before he gives me a cursory nod and walks for his desk.

“Flash drive,” he says, careless. “That assistant left it in my inbox and didn’t tell me it was there.”

He says the words that assistant like you might say the roach I found in the kitchen.

“Lucas left it there because that’s where you asked Lucas to leave it,” Kat says. She leans back on one hand, the other still on my shoulder. I turn slightly but leave a palm on her back.

Meckler just grunts, frowns at the picture frame face-down on his desk, rights it before rifling through a tray on the other side of his desk and eventually coming out with a B&L-branded USB drive.

“Need anything else?” The cheerful, friendly local yokel thing really seems to be pissing him off. Or maybe it’s that I’ve got Kat on her desk. Maybe it’s both.

“This is it,” he says, and holds the drive up, heading for the door again. His face is redder than it was a few minutes ago, his phone still held in his other hand. “Have a good night.”

“Same to you,” I call out as he heads back through the door. “Welcome to Sprucevale!”

There’s no response, only Kat rolling her eyes so hard it’s nearly audible.

“Dick,” she mutters, as Meckler pops his head back through the door.

“Kat, I almost forgot,” he says. “Olivia says hi.”

Her face doesn’t move, but I swear the temperature drops by five degrees.

“See you tomorrow!” he says, and then he’s gone, his footsteps heading for the office’s front door. Kat glares in his direction, hand frozen on my shoulder, and after the outer door closes she looks at me. Her face is flushed and her lips are slightly parted, her eyes dark and serious and she’s still on the desk with me between her knees and for a wild, delirious moment I think she’s going to kiss me again.

I might even want her to.

“Fuck,” she says instead. Pushes me away, drops her hand from my shoulder, hops off the desk. I settle against Meckler’s, not disappointed.

“I thought I did pretty well,” I say.

She grabs the two printouts and shoves them into her bag, not looking at me.

“You did. Sorry,” she says. “Thank you.”

She bends over her desk, clicks her mouse a few times, and her monitor switches off.

“You’re welcome,” I drawl.