The taxi ride was torture. But, you know, the good kind. Shane’s hand kept creeping up my thigh towards my crotch, making it really hard to concentrate on the driver’s rant about declining moral standards. I think he was only talking generally, but I wasn’t keen on giving him any specific examples to get irate about. I may have whimpered a bit when I realized he was going via St Peter’s Street, but either fate was smiling on us or Lilith had worked a little mother’s magic on the traffic, as we made it back in under twenty minutes.
I shoved a handful of notes at the driver, wished him a Merry Christmas, and let Shane drag me up the garden path. My fingers fumbled as I unlocked the door. So did Shane’s, but not on the key. “Bloody hell, I can’t wait to get these jeans off you,” he breathed
