Poppy had spent their shared silence trying not to analyze what Killian was thinking. Not that she had to deliberate too much to guess his thoughts.
She was sure he was embarrassed by the encounter between them. He’d have to have been blind not to see her reaction. And given how quiet he’d been as well, he was clearly uncomfortable with it too.
He probably thought she was some pathetic single woman desperate for affection. Lonely and needy and willing to throw herself at any eligible man. And though he said he wanted to settle down and have a real relationship, she wasn’t naïve enough to think she’d be in the running for that position.
He wanted an elegant, sophisticated type with impeccable taste and a killer body. That was not Poppy.
She shopped at places like Old Navy—when she shopped, which was rarely. She had minimal curves and only got her hair cut when she remembered. She liked gourmet food, but almost always ate at home with her sister.
That was not the description of the woman she saw on Killian’s arm.
Then she caught herself. Okay, so she wasn’t what Killian would find appealing, but she wasn’t lacking. She wouldn’t demean herself that way. She’d done that, and it had gotten her nothing.
Besides, she didn’t want a relationship anyway. Okay, she was attracted to the man. She’d have to be dead not to be. But her reaction in the dressing room didn’t mean she wanted anything from him. Not really.
Several times on the way home, she’d opened her mouth to tell him just that. But every time, she stopped herself.
Even now, she considered explaining herself, but instead said, “Okay, well, have a good day. Say hello to Ginger for me.”
“Oh. Yeah, I will.”
She unlocked her door, only fumbling with the key once. Then she glanced at him, quickly, before opening the door. He regarded her closely, but his golden gaze was guarded, unreadable.
“Okay. ‘Bye,” she said again because she didn’t know what else to say.
He nodded. “Good-bye.”
Poppy closed the door, then stood in the hallway, still unsure of what to do. She glanced at the closed door, wondering if he was already gone.
A part of her wanted to go look. To stop him and talk out all this awkwardness, but another part told her to walk away. Go back to her life and not waste any more time worrying about an insignificant moment in an Old Navy dressing room.
Killian stood on the other side of the door, holding his bags of clothes and toiletries like some character in a movie kicked out of the heroine’s apartment. Forced to shuffle away like a down-and-out loser. Of course, Poppy hadn’t even let him inside to actually kick him out. Did that make him even more pathetic?
He remained there for a few moments, debating on knocking and getting Poppy to come back and talk to him. To discuss the thing that had happened between them back at the store.
But, instead, he turned and headed back to the elevators. He would have to smooth things over with Poppy, eventually. Otherwise, he’d be stuck here—with Vepar breathing down his neck. But maybe for now, they both needed a little time to forget their brief moment of attraction.
If that was even what it was. At this point he didn’t know exactly what they had shared. In fact, he was starting to think that maybe he was the only one who had felt anything.
He’d watched her on their way home, and though she’d been quiet and lost in her own thoughts, she’d otherwise seemed unaffected.
Which was good, he assured himself as he made his way back to the floral hell. He needed to stay on task and get her a man. Juggling his several bags, he rooted around in his pocket for the key.
He unlocked the door and was assaulted by the musty old smell and wanted to groan. He had to figure out how to get back onto good terms with Poppy and get this stupid matchmaking task done. A mission that was never going to happen if things kept getting awkward between them.
“Of course,” he said aloud to the dreaded apartment. “If you’d just let the guy from the restaurant ask her out, you’d be halfway home—maybe even all the way home.”
He grimaced at the place he had to call home for now. Away from here. That would be—dare he say it?— Heaven.
But that guy hadn’t been right. Poppy needed someone better than that guy.
“You didn’t even know him,” he muttered roughly to himself. Killian couldn’t tell anything about him, good or bad.
This was an impossible task. Why had he been the demon conjured anyway? There were demons who could read minds. Read auras. Even touch a person and see that person’s whole past. Wouldn’t any of those have been a better choice than him?
He wandered into the bedroom, dropping his bags onto the floor. Then he searched the room for the fiendish thingy otherwise called a cat. Or Vepar. Which was even worse.
He looked behind the furniture, under the bed—being extra careful about that one—even in the closet. Twice he’d spun around in defense mode because he thought he’d heard something. He was starting to feel like Inspector Clouseau, awaiting an attack from his house servant Cato.
Cato. More like Cat-o. Evil Cat-o.
Okay, clearly his mind was scrambled. Again he was starting to feel like this place was having that effect on him.
When he was sure the room was clear, he shut the bedroom door and fell onto the bed. How was he going to find a man for Poppy? A decent man?
But his attempts to sort that out were soon driven away by other thoughts. Thoughts of how her little hand had felt touching him. Tiny hands that seemed to have the power to ignite him. To make him burn for more of her touch. Even the slightest caress.
Then his disobedient mind imagined what those hands of hers would feel like on his bare skin. Stroking him. Down his chest, over his stomach, down, down to the flesh that ached for her.
He groaned, closing his eyes and allowing himself to indulge in his fantasy. Just for a minute.
Poppy did something that she rarely did. She gathered up the manuscript she was working on, the one she should have been working on all day, and took it to her bedroom. She needed to work, but she felt exhausted. Certainly more emotionally than physically, but either way her bed was calling to her.
She piled up several pillows and settled herself against them, arranging herself and her papers. Once situated, she reread the last part she’d been editing, then started in. She forced her mind to stay on task, finding the occasional typos or grammar mistake, as well as readying the format for the typesetters.
Her mind stayed focused for almost three pages. Then she found images of Killian replacing misspellings and missing commas. More precisely, images of how he’d looked in that shirt and how his chest had felt under her hand.
She gave up marking the page in front of her for a moment, letting her head fall back against the fluffiness of her down pillows. Closing her eyes, she allowed her thoughts to go where they wanted.
He’d been so strong and so warm against her fingers.
She pulled in a shuddering breath. She hadn’t thought of such things in … well, forever. A longing so sharp, so intense, pierced through her, making her ache. But she didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t force the thought away. She could just fantasize for a few moments, couldn’t she? Just a few minutes.
The sheets were tangled, the bed a rumpled mess. Sweat clung to their skin. Bare skin. Bare legs intertwined, as tangled as the sheets. Arms locked. Chests touching. Hearts beating in time. Pounding out a steady rhythm. Or maybe the rhythm was created by the even, deep thrusts. One body filling the other, only to pull away and then refill. Delicious friction. A deep, heavy fullness. Muscles tensing with combined pleasure. A sharp gasp. A moan. A relentless rocking toward ecstasy. Each thrust pushing closer to release, toward Heaven. Closer. Closer. Closer.
“Yes, yes! Oh, yes, Killian.”
“Oh my God! Poppy.”
