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Sunday Snippets #8

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From The Brass Bed by Jennifer Stevenson.

She stood in the staff room, pointer in hand. Clay posed naked before the whiteboard while she pointed at the crinkly laugh-at-you eyes, the smug pouty mouth, the shaggy blond bangs that screamed I don’t have a job.
He didn’t get it. He smirked and made Mr. Buff poses.
Nobody was listening anyway. Except the hunk at the back.
I must be dreaming. No buff guys ever came within a thousand miles of the Department of Consumer Services. She looked across the conference table at the hunk’s unbelievably beefy shoulders and the set of his noble head, like the head of a particularly elegant horse, all dark masculine strength and grace.
He looked right at her. I’m definitely dreaming. With all the perky size-five investigators in the room, he was looking at a six-foot, size-eighteen, dairy-farmer’s daughter? He’d be wasted on the size fives. Here was a man big enough for her.
He stood up and beckoned to her. Man, oh man, was he big. The size fives disappeared, along with the Supervisors in Charge of Talking Slowly at Meetings and the doughnuts and coffee. Good thing, because he was reaching across the table and dragging her by the shoulders into his arms. She was startled at how warm and real his hands felt on her shoulders. In a dream you expect something vague.
Nothing vague about his kiss. Masterful and hot, and yet his lips were cushiony.
She reveled in the dream kiss, letter her back melt against him, letter herself droop across the conference table as if her bodice were being ripped away by a medieval knight, a hunky, half-naked medieval knight who kneaded her bare breast with strong, hot hands, oh man, oh man!

“Where did you come from?” she murmured when his mouth lifted from hers.
“1811,” he said, which she could have told him wasn’t medieval at all, it was one of those dumb periods where America was almost at war over something so dumb nobody remembered anymore, and the clothes were awful.
“Not that you need clothes,” she murmured. She reached over her head to stroke the veined curve of his pectoral muscle, silky smooth yet hard.
  • I’m always eyeing conference room tables. Thanks for sharing!

  • I totally imagined naughty things on the conference tables when I was in briefings while I was in the Navy. What? They were boring. And the guy in khaki across the table from me was most definitely NOT boring… 😉

    Thanks for sharing!
    MamaKitty

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