He hunched down next to her chair, leaned in a couple of inches to add intimacy to his deep rumbling tone. “I have a few rules of my own.”
Michelle gulped. This was going to be harder than she thought. “You’re breaking the second rule.”
“Am I?” He was so close her stomach did a little flip. She wanted to lose herself in his beautiful smoky gaze. “You made five rules. I want five too.”
“You do?” What restrictions could he possibly put on her? She was completely innocent in this. If he would just keep his distance, she could move on, and everything would be fine.
“Rule six,” he began, his gaze roaming over her face. “Stop looking at me as if you’d like to lick ice cream right off me.”
Michelle gasped under the shock of his evocative words. A memory of her doing just that hit her low in her belly.
Before she could recover, he continued, “Rule seven. No wearing sexy little hipsters that flash your underwear when you bend over.”
That did it. Her gasp turned to a splutter, her face suffused with heat that had nothing to do with the warm sunshine.
“Rule eight,” he continued, as though she wasn’t about to suffocate under the weight of embarrassment. “Don’t wear your hair down. It makes me want to bury my hands in it.
“Rule nine. No wearing little black dresses—they make me want to see you naked.”
His cultured voice reverberated through her until every nerve in her body jangled, her bones melted, and a shuddering sigh escaped her.
“And ten, no more crying.” He didn’t even seem to notice she’d practically dissolved at his feet. “It makes your mouth pouty and far too kissable.” He stood and took the Maplewood chair opposite Michelle’s, his knee brushing hers as he sat down.
Obviously, rule five meant nothing to him.
Copyright © 2009
All rights reserved,
Divorce Etiquette is available at The Wild Rose Press