Chapter 5: Not Behind Her Back

His mouth was warmer than I'd imagined.

And I had imagined it.

For three years, in my own kitchen, at red lights, in board meetings with Tom's hand on my knee under the table.

None of that was this.

He kissed me slowly at first, like he was still asking.

Then I bit his lower lip, and he stopped asking.

He made a sound low in his chest.

His hands came off the bench and onto my waist, and he lifted me onto the edge of the workbench in one move.

Brass shavings bit through my trousers.

I didn't care.

I pulled him in by the front of his shirt until his hips were between my knees.

"Lindy," he said against my mouth.

"Don't talk."

"I've had three years of not talking."

"Then talk later."

He laughed into the kiss, and I felt it all the way down.

His beard was rough on my chin.

His hands slid up under the flannel, his flannel, flat against my bare back.

They were callused and careful, and they shook.

I'd watched those hands carve a turkey and fix my mother's dishwasher and open a stranger's door for free.

I'd never once let myself picture them on me.

I was picturing it now.

I pushed his jacket off his shoulders and it hit the floor with a clank of keys.

He kissed down my jaw to the place under my ear.

My head fell back against the pegboard.

A row of padlocks rattled on their hooks.

"Tell me to stop," he said into my neck, "and I'll stop."

"Don't stop."

His thumbs found the bottom edge of my bra.

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