Smart and Sexy

by Jill Shalvis

  He’d known, hadn’t he, Noah reminded himself. He’d known he wasn’t her type. What the hell had he been thinking to put himself out there, telling her how he’d crashed, how he hadn’t had sex in all that time…

  Why didn’t he just rip out his heart and put it on the highway to be run over? Might have been less painful—

  “Noah, please.”

  He kept walking. For sanity’s sake—if there was even any left—he had to. He was going to feed her, get her to the spare bedroom, say good night, and walk away.

  Walking away was the key here.

  “Noah.”

  Probably he’d been a pity fuck. Yeah, that sucked. Or maybe she’d been just trying to thank him. After all, she was extremely polite, even while hijacking him with a pen, she’d been extremely polite.

  That sucked even worse.

  Grabbing his arm, she pulled him back around with surprising strength for a little thing, and then stared up at him, hands on his arms. He could have moved away; hell, he should move away, but there was something so damn compelling about those baby blues he’d once thought he could happily drown in.

  His mistake. “Eat,” he said, and because he knew she wouldn’t unless he did, he pulled out a plate and opened the pizza box. He dumped a piece on the plate. Then when she just looked at it, probably calculating the carbs and fat content in her head, he sighed and loaded it with salad as well. “There’s ranch dressing.”

  She slid onto one of his barstools. “No thanks.”

  He thought of his refrigerator, which probably had beer, maybe a few apples and some questionable leftover Thai. “I don’t have any other kinds.”

  “Plain is fine.” She picked up a piece of lettuce and stuck it in her mouth. “I like it this way.”

  He shook his head, and forgoing a plate for himself, he grabbed a piece of pizza and took a large bite, watching her as he, against his better judgment, sat on the barstool right next to her.

  She took a knife from his counter, and cut a bite from her pizza. And then ate it with the fork.

  Pizza with a fork.

  But then she pushed around the next bite, and he sighed. “What’s the matter?”

  “I was trying to talk to you.”

  Yeah. To tell him he wasn’t her type. “And we have to talk before you eat?”

  “Yes.”

  With another sigh, he took a plate after all and set down his pizza. Fine. She could rip his heart out now, and he’d eat afterward. “If we talk, then you’ll eat?”

  “Everything on my plate,” she promised. “Girl Scout’s honor.”

  “You were a Girl Scout?”

  Her slight amusement vanished. “No. I was a daddy’s girl.”

  And look how well that had turned out for her.

  “Look, I really do promise to eat,” she said. “Believe me, contrary to popular belief—” Her voice came a little tight now. “I’m not a silly socialite. I know I need my strength for Mexico. Where you’re not taking me, by the way.”

  They’d see about that. Pushing back from the counter, he gestured her to go ahead, talk.

  While he braced himself for the invisible blows that would hurt a hell of a lot more than anything in recent memory, because he’d alway closed himself off to hurt.

  Too bad he’d been too stupid to keep himself closed off, or this, too, could have been avoided. In fact, if he’d just listened to Shayne and gone out with him instead of heading to Mammoth, none of this would have happened. He’d be just fine.

  Of course, Bailey wouldn’t be fine. She’d have faced off with the goons that she now claimed to actually know, and would be more hurt than she already was.

  Or worse.

  His gut twisted good at that. Ah, hell. He was here for a reason, because he wanted to help. For that matter, she was here for a reason, too. And she’d wanted him to be the one. That would have to be enough for him. No matter what happened, he intended to see this through.

  To see her safe.

  “Go ahead,” he said, leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”

  “Well…” She brushed some crumbs from her fingers. Imaginary crumbs, he was certain, because her fingers hadn’t touched her pizza. “Before you got all grumpy and irritated, I was trying to—”

  “Grumpy?” he asked incredulously. “Irritated?”

  “Yes.”

  “I did not get grumpy and irritated.”

  “Okay, then you were pouting.”

  He felt his eyes widen. He should have started with a beer. “Pouting?”

  “That’s right.”

  He laughed, but she didn’t. She just looked at him with those big, gorgeous eyes, earnest now.

  “You thought you knew what I was going to say before I said it,” she said. “Which, actually, was presumptuous, and not very nice.”

  He stared at her. “I’m not nice. You should know that by now.”

  “But you are.” She reached for his hand, slipping her much smaller, and damn it, chilled one in his. “You’re one of the nicest men I’ve ever met.”

  He laughed again, utterly without humor. If she thought that, then she’d—

  She’d been with worse men.

  All her life.

  His smile faded. “Bailey.”

  “You thought I was saying you weren’t my type,” she said. “You really thought, after all we’ve been through over the past few days, that I would look you in the eyes and say that.”

  Hell. Yeah, he’d thought that. Silently admitting it, he lifted a shoulder.

  “I was trying to say that I’ve never been with a man like you. It’d never occurred to me, and that’s my shame. Because a man like you…well, you’re real. I can’t explain it better than that. I was trying to thank you, and I wanted do that with no reflection on what we’ve been through personally. But you made me see something. I can’t leave the personal part out of it, because it is personal. Very personal.”

  Christ, her eyes were so soft they could break his heart without even trying.

  “I mean, it feels so inadequate to say, but you have to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done—”

  “It’s fine,” he said, cutting her off. He didn’t want her thanks. She wasn’t trying to rip his heart out, or compare him to the other assholes in her life.

  She was trying to thank him. Jesus. That was the last thing he wanted. But what he did want was a can of worms he intended to never open.

  “Tell me about Cabo,” she whispered.

  “Bailey—”

  “It’s where you crashed, isn’t it.”

  Like a knife to the gut. “Yeah.”

  “Oh, Noah.”

  Jaw tight, he tried to pull his hand free, but she had the grip of a bulldog. “I can fly us there,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

  She looked down at their joined hands. “But—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  She lifted her head and killed him with those eyes, those shimmering, brilliant, shiny eyes. “I can only imagine what the flight cost you, what yet another flight there would cost you—”

  “Goddamnit, I just told you I was fine.”

  “But you’ve already done so much for me, already risked so much—”

  “I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “But I’m so glad you did.” Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his jaw. “So glad.”

  And here came another pity fuck, right on schedule. Unable to handle it, he went to pull away, but he was still seated, and she held on with that grip of steel. She slid off her barstool. Her thighs bumped his knees, and without permission from his brain, his body went on high alert.

  Bad body.

  Still on tiptoes, she skimmed her lips toward his mouth. “I can never thank you for everything you’ve done,” she whispered, kissing him again, on the lips this time, softly, so achingly sweetly that he felt the iciness inside him slowly loosen. “Thank you,” she whispered again, and this time deepened the kis
s. “Thank you…”

  Oh, God. It was the pity fuck, he knew it. He just didn’t have the strength to walk away from her. Instead, he put his hands on her hips and nudged her closer, between his legs. The little sound that escaped her throat was pure acquiescence, pure arousal, and it fueled his own. His hands slid down to cup her sweet ass and rock her forward, his eyes crossing with lust.

  Which pissed him off. He’d had her, several times now. How could he still want her like this, with such a strong power he shook with it?

  But some things, he knew, there just were no answers for.

  “In fact, there are no words to thank you enough,” she murmured, her hands on his shoulders. She tipped her face up to send him a tentative smile, making it even harder to resist her—it warmed his heart. Yep, the organ he’d thought dead and buried reared its hopeful little head and made him smile back.

  Stupidity at its finest.

  “Wow.” She traced his lips with a finger, smiling dreamily. “You’re so beautiful when you smile, Noah.”

  “Stop.”

  She did, but before she could take her finger off his lower lip, he sucked it into his mouth.

  Hers fell open, as if she needed it that way just to breathe, and that reaction, along with her sharp intake of breath, turned him on so fast his head spun.

  Even though it’d been spinning since she’d first stepped onto his plane.

  “No one else would have done all you have,” she said softly. “No one else would be willing to go with me now, to relive their biggest nightmare.”

  Jesus, she was still trying to thank him. “Bailey—”

  “I mean it.”

  It wasn’t her gratitude he wanted, not even close. At the moment he wanted something far easier to swallow, and far more base. She was cradled between his thighs, making it easy to slide his hands down her hips, her smooth legs, and then back up again, this time beneath her skirt.

  Her breath caught. “Noah.”

  He loved that husky tone that had come into her voice, but just in case she planned to keep on thanking him, he covered her mouth with his to shut her up. Or so he told himself. But what he really wanted was to lose himself in the depths of her mouth, her body.

  Hell, who was he kidding? He wanted her, all of her, heart and soul, because somehow, in some way, she’d become the salvation of his. His fingers encountered—oh God—some tiny lacy panties, the operative word being tiny.

  Another thong.

  Oh, yeah, he thought, cupping her bare cheeks, letting his fingers meet in the middle to trace that intriguing scrap of lace up…and down…and up…

  Bailey’s breathing changed, became choppy, and her fingers fisted in his shirt over his pecs. She had a few chest hairs in the midst, but he held back his wince because no way did he want her to take her hands off him.

  He needed those hands, needed them on him in the worst possible way.

  When his fingers slid under the lacy strap of her thong, she sucked in a serrated breath.

  “Spread your legs,” he whispered, then helped her along by nudging her feet apart with one of his, which gave him access to all he sought. “Ah, yeah, you’re wet.” It made his own breathing go as choppy as hers. “Is this more thanks, Princess?”

  “No—” she managed. “That’s…that’s how much I want you.”

  Lifting his head, he stared into her dazed baby blues.

  “I want you,” she repeated softly, and taking her hands off of him, she pulled off her sweater and let it hit the floor. Beneath she wore a white lace bra that played peek-a-boo with her nipples, which were pebbled into two hard, pouty points. She let the straps fall off her shoulders to her elbows, so that the cups slipped, barely, just barely now, still covering her.

  Her gaze shimmered with heat, such heat he knew he was playing with fire, and also something else, something more and deeper, and even harder to resist—affection.

  It was that which slayed him.

  So he closed his eyes and dipped his head, kissing his way down her throat, down to a high curved breast, and farther, dipping his tongue beneath the lace to tease.

  Her hands fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, but he didn’t help her because that would mean taking his hands off her body and he couldn’t do that, he just couldn’t. He had her shoved hard against the buttons on his Levi’s in the front, his hands up her skirt in the back, one gripping her ass, the other playing in her slippery heat. He couldn’t have been any closer, and yet it still wasn’t enough.

  He needed to be buried inside her, needed to be milked dry as she came apart for him, needed to hear his name fall from her lips as she did.

  “Please,” she sighed in a pleasure-drugged voice, her head falling back as he continued to kiss her breasts. She stirred restlessly against him, rocking her hips in an age old rhythm. “I need—”

  He knew. He needed it, too, and he played his fingers in and out of her, swallowing her whimper with his mouth, but it still wasn’t enough. She was fumbling at his Levi’s, working the buttons free, and then she slipped her hands inside. One touch of her hands encircling him, and his hips jerked upward. Then she stroked him, and he saw stars.

  Christ, was it always going to be like this with them, fiery hot and unstoppable? He felt like a freight train barreling without brakes into his first stop, and there was nothing he could do. He yanked her thong down.

  She tried to do the same to his jeans, but he was still sitting on the barstool. With a little growl of frustration, she sank her fingers into his hair and tugged his head up. “Help me,” she demanded.

  With some half-baked Neanderthal idea of carrying her over his shoulder to his bedroom, he surged to his feet, but the bedroom seemed much too far away. Hell, the couch in the living room seemed too far. So was the kitchen table, just behind him.

  Turning her back to him, she surveyed the room with the same desperation he felt. As if weak-kneed, she leaned on the barstool, and the hem of her skirt rose enough to expose a hint of the panties he’d tugged to her thighs. Turbulent heat and desire whipped through him, and with a hand low on her back, he let out a breath.

  Oh yeah, there was a picture, Bailey bent over his barstool. Wrapping his fingers in the hem of her skirt, he pushed it to the small of her back, then nearly staggered at the sight of her white lacy thong barely clinging to her upper thighs, at the pink glistening glory between them, at the sweet curves of her amazing ass, the twin dimples at the base of her spine.

  Utterly unable to help himself, he bent and put his mouth there, then worked his way up as his arms banded around her, his hands cupping the weight of her breasts, his fingers grazing her nipples.

  Her hands came behind her, grabbing his hips, yanking him flush to her. He was going to last exactly one more second like that, so he took her hands in his and brought them in front of her, stretching her out, settling them on the edge of his granite countertop, tightening his on hers in a silent plea to keep them there.

  She did, arching her back, still rubbing her ass up and down on him as everything within him began to draw up tight. Even his toes began to curl.

  He couldn’t hold back.

  With her, he could never hold back.

  He’d wanted to make her come first, wanted to hear her pant out his name in that breathless, sexy-as-hell way she had when he’d put