Page 75 of Melting for the Firefighter
I let him lead me through the front door.
The house is quiet.
No toys playing music from beneath the couch. No little hands reaching for anything bright, sharp, breakable, or covered in flower petals.
I turn toward Lance.
“What are these plans you arranged babysitting for?”
He locks the door.
The sound sends a slow shiver down my spine.
“You wore that dress on purpose.”
I look down at the purple floral dress I chose this morning.
“I wore clothes on purpose.”
“It is too short.”
“It reaches my knees.”
“Not when I lift it.”
Heat curls through me.
He crosses the room.
Two years of marriage have not made Lance less intense. They have only taught me how much tenderness lives beneath all that control.
His hands settle on my hips.
“I watched you in it all day.”
“You were supposed to be supervising our daughter.”
“I can do both.”
His mouth finds the side of my neck.
My teasing turns into a breathless sound.
“Lance.”
“Kitchen.”
I glance over his shoulder. “Why?”
His teeth graze the sensitive place beneath my ear.
“Because I say so.”
“That sounds romantic.”
His hand slides down and grips my bottom through the dress.
“It isn’t.”
