Plus ONE

Chapter 6

Kimbra

"s**t!" I take a step back, but Mr. Willis reaches toward me again. This time he grabs my hand. His touch is warm—a spark that brings the earlier fire back to life.

"Are you all right? You look a little pale."

The amusement in his tone reverberates in a straight line from my ears to right between my thighs. My core clenches as I remember the growl I'd heard earlier in the bathroom. No wonder I'm pale. My blood is too busy racing through my system, muting the world. I mean, I'm sure I misunderstood what he'd just said.

"Y-you agree? You do realize," I clarify, "that I'm talking a full weekend. Four days. My family." I pull my hand back as I remember my mother saying we would stay at their house with them. "s**t!"

This is a disaster.

Mr. Willis laughs. "Is that your favorite word? I should know—since we're involved."

I shake my head. "No," I answer too truthfully. "f**k is my favorite word."

He laughs again, this time louder. Each chuckle diffuses a small amount of my horror.

"No! This was a bad idea. I just remembered, since I kind of forgot about this weekend, I didn't book a hotel. My mom wants us to stay with her and my dad, and I don't know, probably my brother and his wife will be there...and maybe even my grandma. Oh, Mr. Willis, this will never work."

"Duncan."

His name is a flame setting every nerve in my body ablaze. I've touched myself to that name. I've fantasized about it. Now Duncan Willis is inches away, his lips hovering near mine, saying his name, his warm, cinnamon breath caressing my cheeks, and his spicy cologne filling my lungs. I swallow. "Duncan...yeah, right," I say stupidly as I lift my right hand and extend it to him, ready to shake. "I'm Kimbra."

Taking my hand, he laughs again, low and deep. He turns my hand in his grasp and lifts my knuckles to his lips. Their touch is tender as he peers up at me from under sinfully long lashes. "Yes, Kimbra, I know your name. Don't worry, I'll book a hotel. Where in Indiana are we going?"

Surely my heart is about to beat out of my chest. I try to form words and put them together in something that resembles a sentence. "Going...going to Indianapolis, and s**t, you can't. It's race weekend. The hotels are all booked."

"Race? The 500?"

"Yes. My mom wants us there Thursday. Friday night is the bachelor party." I narrow my eyes. "Mr. Wi—I mean, Duncan. There will be women. That's the kind of party it is."

He nods knowingly.

"If we're...together, you can't...you'll be with my brother and cousins and you just..."

He squeezes the hand he's still holding. "Tell me, Kimbra, will we be together?" He elongates the final word.

My breathing hitches. "We need rules. We need to make it appear..."

He releases his grip and leans back against his desk. With his arms again crossed over his broad chest, he says, "Lay the rules on me."

The way he's staring at me looks like he's waiting for me to give him a report on office morale, not like I'm about to tell him our plans and sleeping arrangements for the weekend...in my parents' house.

I clear my throat. "We have to make them all believe we've been dating."

He nods.

"I mean dating for a while. They can't know this is just a one-time plus-one weekend."

"Dating for a while," he repeats.

"Yes, and we'll need to stay at my parents' house. My mom wants us to share a room. She thinks if she and my dad give their permission, someday I might get married."

Duncan's eyes widen.

I vigorously shake my head back and forth. "I'm not saying that. This is one weekend."

"A plus-one for one weekend. Got it. Still..." His eyebrows wiggle, as he pushes off the desk. Before I can blink he has one strong hand around my waist and pulls me toward him. "Miss Jones...Kimbra, please clarify for me. Am I hearing you correctly? Your rules include sharing a room at your parents', where they want me to deflower their little girl?"

My neck cranes upward as heat fills my cheeks. I try to ignore the way our hips are plastered together. "I'm not a little girl and that flower has already been picked."

He pulls me even closer and winks. "Even better. Too much responsibility. Perhaps there are other flowers still available?"

"Other flowers?"

The hand around my waist lowers until it's firmly on my ass. While my mind screams inappropriate, my body craves more. I yearn to turn toward the window, wishing that it is opaque so that this can go further. I inhale deeply, my breasts now rubbing against his chest. "Mr.—"

He touches my lips. "Duncan."

"What is men's obsession with...other flowers?"

"Now, how long have we been together? That seems like a conversation for further into our relationship."

I shake my head and try to articulate. "Th-this—"

"Weekend. Your rules," Duncan interrupts. "I'm trying to understand."

"This is strictly pretend," I say.

"So am I to understand that this weekend is not about picking flowers?" He squeezes my ass again.

Heat floods my cheeks. "Yes. No. A weekend. A pretend weekend. That's all. We do this and I don't say anything to Mr. Buchanan, and if whoever was with you files a report, I do my best to talk her out of it." Before he has a chance to respond, I add, "I'll make plane reservations. What time can you leave on Thursday?"

"Kimbra." My name rolls like a distant rumble of thunder off his tongue. "Right now I'd like to kiss my weekend girlfriend." His brow arches. "You know, to seal the deal."

"What?"

Duncan brushes my cheek with his knuckle. "I've seen you blush before, but it's even cuter close up."

I nervously look toward the window. I gasp as I realize it's no longer clear, but frosted. "How? When?"

He tips his head toward the desk. "A button, right after your interesting proposal."

How had I not noticed? Maybe because Duncan Willis has had my undivided attention.

"I-I..."

"Is my request against your rules?"

"A kiss?" I ask, uncertainty gushing from each syllable. I can't think straight. My rules. What are my rules?

"You see," he goes on, "the way I look at it is that flowers come in all colors. Right now, before me I see beautiful red lips, like a rose. I've watched those lips praise employees and I've seen them fire others. What I've never done is kiss them."

"Mr. Wi—"

"Duncan. That's my name. You'll need to work on that for this weekend. Don't you think?"

I wasn't sure what I was thinking. The room was warm. His breath was warm. My entire body was warm.

I nod.

Duncan's smile grows. "Is that nod about my name or is it permission for me to pick the beautiful rose before me? For us to seal our deal?"

My heart races as I swallow and nod again with my heart hammering so hard that I'm sure he can feel it. "Duncan. Got it. Yes, a kiss would be—"

His mouth covers mine, stopping my response. I expect a quick brush of his lips, a peck or chaste show of pretend affection.

Instead, he lingers. His warm, sexy full lips swallow my answer and send electricity throughout my body. Hot chills—yes, HOT CHILLS—run straight through me. His kiss consumes. In merely seconds, I melt against him. No longer rigid, my body is putty in his strong hands as he holds me to him. A moan I don't recognize fills my ears.

Though I'm pliable, part of him—a very large part of him—isn't. And that part is currently pushing against my stomach.

I should stop this.

I should pull away.

My brain is lecturing, but my body isn't listening.

When we finally separate, I stare at his mouth before slowly moving my gaze to his eyes. "Flight?" I ask, remembering my earlier question.

"Noon. We'll leave from here. Bring your luggage to my office Thursday morning and I'll have Jorge take care of it. If a hotel is out of the question, then I'll arrange the flight. We'll take a company plane."

I shake my head.

"Kimbra," he says, his tone like the perfect grade of sandpaper—just the right amount of rough. "Don't make me play the boyfriend card."

Boyfriend!

"Pretend," I remind him. "And we don't need to be there until later."

He brushes his lips over mine again and grins. "Five months. A winter fling that I can't seem to get enough of."

I try to comprehend. "What?"

"It's how long we've been dating. It started after the company holiday party when I saw you in that stunning gold dress, the one with the slit that went all the way up your thigh. I couldn't stop thinking about how high it went, wondering what you were wearing underneath. If your pink flower was covered. If all I had to do was reach..."

His fingers graze my hip and slowly bunch my skirt higher and higher.

I can't speak.

Holy s**t! Duncan Willis is lifting my skirt.

I should argue or scream, but all I can think about is that he noticed me. I did wear a gold dress to the company party. I never thought he noticed me.

His fingers stop moving, the hem of my skirt still mid-thigh. His eyes lower to my breasts. "And your t**s, both in that dress and now," he adds, "...are breathtaking. But that night, you were with that guy from distribution, Timothy."

"W-we dated, but not for long." Not after I caught him with that slut from accounting.

"Don't tell me any more," Duncan says. "If you do, if he did something to upset you, you or others in HR may need to justify a wrongful termination."

"Pretend," I say again, less convincingly.

Duncan's fingers brush the skin of my thigh, just below the hem of my now-raised skirt. "You keep telling yourself that, but I'd bet if I lifted this skirt higher, you'd be wet. I bet in no time at all I could make you whimper, not like you did in the bathroom when you were listening, but this time loud enough that Jorge could hear you."

Inappropriate. The word is losing its meaning.

The combination of his voice and touch sends bolts of lightning straight to my core that is just as he described it—wet. I sway toward him before coming to my senses and take a step back. "Pretend, Mr. Willis. One weekend."

Duncan smiles. "Miss Jones, you're lucky that I'm not a gambling man. If I were, I'd need to verify that I'm right..." He leans down until our noses touch. "...about you being wet. And for the record, since we've been dating for five months, you should know that I'm rarely wrong."