Perfect Pitch by Mindy Klasky

that she became aware. His fingers twitched, and he barely resisted the urge to pull her close, hazards of a tucked-in cotton towel be damned. He cleared his throat instead and asked, “What does probation mean?”
    “Well, for starters, I’m probably not supposed to be standing in your kitchen without a chaperone.”
    “I’d tell Trey to come back, but that didn’t really seem to help things Sunday night.”
    She licked her lips.
    And that was it. He had to taste her, had to return for the rest of the kiss those damn photographers had interrupted on her front porch.  
    She was ready for him. Waiting. Her lips were soft beneath his, but they opened before he even started to press forward. Her tongue was hot satin, slipping against his.  
    He cupped his hand against the back of her head, perfecting the angle. Her hair flowed between his fingers, sleek and soft as he caught it close to her neck. He felt her gasp more than heard it, and he edged his lips to the line of her jaw, to the pulse point that beat hot and steady on her throat.
    This time, she moaned, and her fingers close around his hips. He felt the scratch of her nails, the pressure of her need, and he shifted to let her feel the hard length of his arousal.  
    She caught her breath—in surprise he thought, but then he was startled to feel her index finger trace the line of his towel, trailing the folds where the terry cut against his obliques. He looked down at her, letting a lazy smile spread across his lips.
    “Is this an approved activity during your probation, Miss Summer Queen?”
    “Most definitely not,” she whispered.
    Pulling her close with one hand, he slipped the other beneath her skirt. She gasped as his palm smoothed up her thigh. He wasn’t surprised—pleased, but not surprised—to feel lace at the edge of her panties.  
    He wanted to tear them off her. He wanted to push up the prim hem of her skirt, to lift her up until she had no choice but to close her long legs around his waist. He wanted to throw his towel to the floor, carry Sam to the center island, spread her out before him, so he could give her all the attention she deserved, with his fingers, his mouth, his dick, which had made its own intense interest known, in no uncertain terms.
    But Trey was playing computer games, one room away. And Isabel would be home any minute.
    He swore softly and forced his fingers away from the treacherous lace of those panties. Settling his hands on the waistband of her skirt, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. He forced himself to take a steadying breath. Another. A third, and he was finally steady enough to speak.
    “Give me your phone.”
    “My phone?” She matched his whisper with one of her own, but he could hear her confusion, stirred together with a little breathless amusement.
    He stepped back enough to let her reach her purse. When she handed over the device, he wasted no time dialing his own number, hanging up after one ring.
    “There,” he said, pressing the phone into her palm. “Now you can reach me for the next two weeks.”
    “Two weeks?” The flush was fading from her cheeks, but that only made him desire her more, made him want to restore that flash of color.
    “Road trip,” he said. “Chicago, St. Louis, and Detroit.”
    His heart sped up at her look of disappointment. She glanced toward his office, though. “What about Daniel?”
    “He’ll stay here. He’s got a full-time nanny, because my schedule is so crazy.”
    “Crazy. That’s one word for it.” Her glance lingered on his towel for long enough that he found himself second-guessing his earlier restraint. She took mercy on him, though, easing back a step and making a show of slipping her phone into her purse. “When do you leave?” she asked.
    “Tonight. After the game.”
    “Game?” She glanced at the clock on the stove.
    “I have to be at the park by 5. I pitched two nights ago, so I get to sit on a bench and watch