Free Closest Encounter by E.G. Wiser Page B

had switched the carpeting from taupe to tan.
    Sam stood there while I applied a paper towel to my tit. Actually, he didn’t merely stand there—he stared, turned away, blinked and stared again. I couldn’t blame the guy. The girls were rather ravishing—perky from the cold water, encased in a formidable push-up bra, eager for more inappropriate fondling.
    “I’m sorry about…that.” He slumped and shoved his hands in his pockets.
    “It’s okay. It happens.” I smiled, brimming with reassurance.
    The tension finally broke when he snickered. “It does? How often does it happen? You should avoid potato balls.”
    “And accountants.”
    We laughed at each other. For once I wasn’t laughing by myself.
    My ears pricked at the silence surrounding us. The back office echoed, and we were alone. The whirring hum of the old refrigerator sounded like a Lionel Ritchie love song to me in my hyper-aroused state. Hello? Is it me you want to do on the floor?
    I stared at him, knowing I resembled an enraptured puppy, but unable to help it. Unbelievably, he gazed right back. Soft green eyes mesmerised me. After what felt like ten minutes, I found my voice again. “I think I’ll wait here until my boo—sweater dries.”
    “I understand.” His focus never left my face. “We don’t want to start any lactating rumours.”
    “No. It takes a long time for those to go away—I know from experience.”
    Sam chuckled, flashing the dimple again.
    What happened next was one hundred per cent the dimple’s fault—the evil dent winked in his cheek like a boozy lounge singer, urging me to bad behaviour.
    I reached up his five-nine or so height and pulled the collar of his green shirt down to my five-foot lip level to kiss him.
    He smelt divine—shaving cream and man skin. An enticing combination. His lips were soft and surprised at first, but soon parted to allow my exploration. Sweet. He tasted sweet, warm, delicious. Oh, God.
    My fantasies about kissing him were pale, pathetic compared to the real thing. Sparks flew from my lips through my veins to my toes, singeing various important parts in between. The sudden heat emanating from his talented mouth made me dizzy. Blood pounding, I clutched him harder to remain upright. This was not an ordinary kiss. This was a masterpiece painted by the two of us.
    I let his shirt go before his lips.
    His hazy gaze melted into mine. “I should be inappropriate more often.” 
    “I wrinkled your nice green shirt.” I smoothed the cloth over his chest—his solid, inviting, muscled, taut… What on earth is going on? Oh, yes, I’ve messed up his shirt .
    “I don’t care. Do you like it?” His eyebrows hovered upward, as if he really cared about me liking his clothes.
    I dared a glance into his eyes again. I should learn not to do that. Warmth pooled in my stomach when he leaned in, desire writ large in the purse of his lips, the falling of his eyelashes. I gripped his shirt. I didn’t have to pull very hard—this time his arms locked around my waist and lifted me until I stood on his feet. On my tiptoes, I flicked my tongue across his bottom lip. Marvellous. With an approving grunt, he sucked on mine, and I heard myself moan into his open mouth. Accountants shouldn’t have such nice bodies, but I felt firm, delicious muscle when my belly pressed against his.
    “Ahem.” We froze.
    In slow motion, I turned around to find Scott, the company scumbag, leering. Scott made office irritation an art form by eavesdropping, rumour-mongering, licking his fingers and leaving messes in the communal microwave. He gave his best smarmy laugh before leaving.
    Sam closed his eyes. “Crap.”
    “Crap,” I agreed. “I should have taken you home, and then kissed you.”
    Grinning, he said, “Samantha, I like you.”
    He did? I held my breath. There was no candid camera. No pointing and/or laughing. A hot, normal guy liked me.
    I did not believe that women should derive their self-worth from the approval