The Holiday Inheritance (Naughty and Spice)

4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Florence

I kneed Briggs in the balls. And left him with a serious black eye. I feel awful, but you can’t go sneaking up on someone like that. Especially when they’re in a new house with no pants on.

“Announcing my presence!” I hear him shout as he walks back toward me from the room he’s staying in. “I am walking through the hallway! Coming around the corner!”

I laugh, placing the slices of cheese on the bread as the butter sizzles in the pan.

“I am in the doorway!” he announces before taking a step inside. I look at him over my shoulder. He’s thrown on his flannel, but it’s half-unbuttoned, showing off his strong, tattooed chest, dusted with dark hair. I’ve never been the girl that likes men shaven. I like them hairy. I want them to look like a man, not a prepubescent boy.

“Thanks for those updates.”

His answering smile is enough to drop the panties I’m wearing. No, I didn’t go upstairs to put pants on. Should I have? Probably. But I kind of like the way he’s been looking at me. I like that maybe I’m the one tempting him.

“So, not a good first night?”

I smile and shake my head. “It was decent until I assaulted you.” I flip the sandwiches and then lean against the counter, crossing my arms, watching him watch me. Those pretty dark eyes of his roam my body openly, like he wants me to see he’s interested—that he likes what he sees. It makes my hair stand on end, and my stomach swoops and flutters. “Didn’t think those classes really stuck. Guess they did.”

“Guess so,” he says, finally meeting my eyes again. “You have quite the right hook.”

I shrug, turning my attention back to the sandwiches. The heat from the Aga warms my bare legs almost as much as his gaze does. I can feel it on me like a physical touch, and it blurs the lines that should be between us. Technically, I’m his boss. I don’t really like that term, but it is what it is. Even though he’s clearly a good decade older than me, I inherited the house, and he works at it. Getting involved would probably not be the best idea.

He walks over beside me, grabbing a couple of plates from the cabinet and setting them on the counter. Using the spatula, I take the sandwiches out of the pan and place them on the plates. I have to admit, these look good. They’re golden brown, and the thick-cut cheddar cheese is melting over the crust of the bread. Using the butter knife, I cut mine in half, diagonally through the center.

“Diagonal?” he asks, his one eyebrow rising.

“There is no other way.”

He narrows his eyes, watching me as he cuts his right down the center.

I gasp. “You monster.”

He takes a bite and winks, making a goofy smile break out across my face. I look away, hiding the fact that this man can affect me so much. I take a bite of my own, moaning at how good the buttery bread and melted cheese taste together.

“What is it about late-night food that tastes so much better?” I ask, glancing back over in his direction. But he isn’t paying attention. No, his eyes are locked on my lips. “What?” I ask, wiping at my mouth. “Do I have cheese stuck to my mouth?”

He makes a strangled noise and shakes his head, setting the plate back down on the counter before taking a step in my direction. I’m frozen on the spot, not sure where he’s taking this. There’s a very large part of me that wants him to take me right here on this counter. I’m not sure if it’s the jet lag or the late-night grilled cheese endorphins, but this man has my toes curling against the tile just from looking at me.

“That little noise you made…” he starts, his voice barely above a whisper. He slowly closes the distance between us completely, and that masculine scent of his fills my senses and knocks me off-balance. His calloused hands cautiously take hold of my face, jaw, and throat, his thumbs softly moving back and forth over my cheeks. I’m tall for a woman, but Briggs is still taller, forcing my head to fall back to look at him.

We share a breath, our gazes flicking back and forth between eyes and lips. There’s a hint of a smile on those sexy lips of his, the ghost of a dimple peeking out from under his scruff. When I lick my lips, he zeroes in on them, no longer able to hold my gaze. I let myself touch him then, my fingertips sliding along the band of his boxer briefs and then settling under his shirt on the soft skin of his hips.

“I probably shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking to mine for the briefest second before going back to my mouth.

“Probably not,” I agree, my voice rough from nerves.

A quick, deep chuckle rumbles through his chest. “I don’t think I can stop myself, though,” he admits. “Not unless you want me to.”

My fingertips dig into his sides, pulling him even closer to me, forcing him to brush up against my body. He’s warm and hard all over, his body finely tuned from all those years of hard work with his hands. Oh, god. I bet he’s so fucking good with his hands. My thighs clench at the thought.

“Do I look like I want you to stop?”

He hesitates, just slightly, his head bobbing once before slowly descending to meet mine. His hands stay cupped around my face, pulling me to meet him halfway. The kiss is gentle at first, slow and teasing, testing the waters. His lips are soft against my own, barely opening as he leaves sweet pecks from one corner to the other, like he’s cherishing every little second. I’ve never been kissed like this, like it matters, like I matter.

Pulling back, he looks at me for a second, making sure I really want this. And, god help me, I do. I really, really do. The nod I give him is small, almost imperceptible. But he sees it, and he seizes the opportunity. This time when he kisses me, he really kisses me. His hands tighten their grip, one sliding to rest at the back of my neck and the other continuing to hold me fast against his mouth.

When I feel his tongue slide against the seam of my lips, I part them and let him in. He tastes like buttery bread as his tongue slides over mine. The rough stubble rubs deliciously over my mouth and chin, and I finally let my fingers work at the buttons of his flannel, exposing his torso. My hands roam over his stomach and chest. His abs flex under my palms; the hair over his pecs is soft. I love the way he almost purrs against me, a low growl rolling through him and vibrating into me.

With quick movements and never lifting his mouth from my own, he shucks his shirt off and lets it land on the tile beneath us. Then, he’s grabbing my ass and hoisting me up against him, and my legs immediately wrap around his hips before he guides me down onto the wooden table in the center of the room. His body hovers over me, his lips, teeth, and tongue still ravaging my mouth.

“Briggs,” I breathe against him as he abandons my mouth for my jaw and throat. He works his way down, licking and sucking as he goes. My panties are soaked, and my toes are curled. My body feels like it’s on fire, too hot to have this shirt on any longer.

“Tell me to stop.” He breaks, his forehead resting just below my collarbone while his fingers play with the hem of my shirt. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop, Ren.”

Those dark eyes look up at me, his mouth swollen and red from our impassioned kissing. His eyelashes are long and dark. Why do men always have the prettiest fucking eyelashes? I run my hands through his hair, tousling it into messy waves. I shake my head back and forth, and that’s enough for him. I lift my hips, and he pushes my shirt up and over my hips and stomach, exposing my skin to the slight chill in the room.

My nipples pebble as he continues pushing upward before helping me lift it off completely. The way he looks down at me has my body heating to an uncomfortable level. His eyes eat me up while his fingers trace lines from my collarbone to between my breasts, then over my navel and down to the band of my cotton underwear. Had I known this was a possibility, I would’ve worn something a little more sexy than granny panties.

“God, you’re sexy,” he says, his eyes flashing back up to mine. His arms wrap around my thighs, and he tugs me roughly to the edge of the table so that I’m flush with his hips. I love the way he can manhandle me and the way his fingers curl into my flesh, dimpling my skin with the effort. “And these little white knickers?” he practically growls, running a single digit over my mound and between my thighs. The sensation causes my back to arch and a pained moan to escape my lips. I need more than what he’s giving me. I need him to fucking touch me.

“Briggs,” I groan, my hips lifting to find more friction. “Please.”

“Fuck, I love it when you beg. You look so pretty beneath me, squirming and needy.” His pupils are blown, and his hands grab hold of my hips as he leans forward slightly. It’s just enough to make contact with my clit, his rock-hard cock pressing firmly against it.

Fuck. I am doomed. I’d do just about anything to make him touch me right now. When I reach down and grab hold of his forearms—the easiest thing for me to reach—I dig my nails in and use them as leverage to grind my pussy against his boxer-clad cock. He’s so hard, and I can see where he’s dripping precum, turned on and already wet for me.

Briggs leans forward again, one of his hands wrapping around my throat. He holds it snugly but doesn’t squeeze. I like the way it feels, safe and held in place against a man who clearly wants me. His thumb runs along my jaw and then slips between my lips, where I suck it hard into my mouth.

The darkest chuckle rolls through him as he smirks at my brazenness.

“I bet you will be the best girl for me,” he says, his eyes locked onto mine. “Won’t you, Ren?”