by Beth Andrews
Because it wouldn’t just be a drink and they both knew it. Because she was wearing that skirt, that top. Because her hair was down and there was something raw about her, something that told him he needed to keep his distance.
But then he made the mistake of meeting her eyes. And he was lost. He shifted into Park, turned off the truck. “One drink.”
“I don’t have my keys so I’ll have to get the spare I have hidden out back. You can wait on the porch.”
She slid out of the truck and, as she disappeared into the dark between the small garage and the two-story house, he once again took ahold of the keys in his ignition. But he couldn’t turn it, couldn’t make himself leave. He’d just go in, make sure she really was all right, maybe pour some coffee into her…listen to her if that’s what she needed. Then, when he was convinced her dangerous mood had passed, he’d go. His conscience clear, his good deed for the day done.
He made his way up the walk. Her house was large, traditional with a porch that spanned the entire width, square windows with pale green shutters. The door was a deeper green.
It didn’t look like her at all.
The windows on either side of the door flooded with light as he stepped onto the porch. Inside, what sounded like a large dog started barking excitedly, continued barking though the sound became muted then started up again from out back. A minute later, the door opened.
Moving aside, she held the door, sweeping her arm for him to come in. He hesitated just long enough for her to raise her eyebrows in question. Or challenge.
He went in.
She closed the door behind him then turned and walked to the right of a stairway in the center of the house, her heels clicking on the wood floor. He followed slowly. There was a living room to the left, dining room complete with a huge glossy table and one of those china cabinets, to the right. He passed another short, dark hallway then stepped into a brightly lit kitchen. It opened into a family room that had a sofa, two chairs and a large-screen TV on the wall. Dog toys were scattered on the floor, a crate was pushed against the wall between a fireplace and a set of French doors.
And on the other side of those doors, a black dog watched them, its breath fogging the glass.
“You live here alone?” he asked as she pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge, handed him one.
She twisted the top off hers, took a drink, her eyes lit with humor as she watched him over the bottle. “Do I strike you as someone who wants to live with a roomie?”
No, she didn’t. She struck him as someone used to getting her own way, doing her own thing. Someone private and guarded. “This is a lot of house for one person.”
She paused in the act of raising her bottle back to her mouth. “It wasn’t always just me. This is the house where we grew up, me and my sisters. When Dad and Celeste decided to move in together a few years back, I bought it from him.” She nodded toward the dog. “And now it’s just me and Bobby O.”
Bobby O? “You named your dog after Bobby Orr, the hockey player?”
“Not me. I let Brandon, my nephew, name him to make up for the fact that Tori won’t let him get a dog of his own.” She tossed her cap into a garbage can in the corner. Regarding him intently, she stepped forward, stopped before she could brush against him—thank God. “It’s just the two of us here.”
His throat went dry. He set his unopened beer on the counter. “How about I make us some coffee?” He used his most patient, soothing tone, the one he employed when questioning a victim of a crime. “Or maybe food would be better,” he said, sidestepping her to get to her refrigerator. She needed something in her system, something other than beer and whatever was eating her up inside. “When was the last time you ate?”
He felt her come up behind him. Everything in him stilled: his breathing, his heart, his thoughts.
“I don’t want any food,” she said, her voice tinged with suggestion.
She touched him, her fingers trailing down his spine so lightly that for a moment, he thought he imagined it. But then she did it again, this time going up his back, her hand flat, her palm dragging his T-shirt up. Sweat broke out along his hairline, his heart pounded.
He bit back a groan, stopped himself from bouncing his forehead off the freezer door a few times.
When her nails scraped along the skin at his lower back, he jerked upright and spun around. She reached for him and he grabbed her wrists, her pulse drummed heavily under his fingers. He leaned close, felt mild satisfaction when uncertainty entered her eyes. When her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
“Don’t play with me, Layne,” he warned roughly.
She tugged on her hands and he let her go. His shoulders loosened when she took a small step back.
But then she blew his mind when she flicked open the top button of her blouse and asked, “Who’s playing?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HER PULSE RACING with excitement, her eyes locked on his, Layne slowly undid another button. Then another.
A muscle worked in Ross’s jaw, his gaze dropped to her fingers then jerked back to her face. “It won’t help.”
She froze, her fingers playing with the next button. “What?”
“This.” He waved a hand between them. “Sex won’t solve whatever’s bothering you, whatever’s going on inside that stubborn head of yours.”
His voice was gentle, his eyes kind. It almost undid her. He understood her so well, it was scary.
“I don’t expect it to solve anything,” she said, slipping the next button loose. Then another. “But I don’t want to think tonight. And I don’t want to be alone.” She didn’t want to deal with the emotions churning inside her, all her doubts and fears. She pulled the shirt from her skirt, slid the last button open. The material parted, exposing her bare stomach and the utilitarian beige bra she’d put on. His gaze lowered, heated. Desire pooled in her stomach. Her nipples pebbled, jutted against the fabric, showing him what he did to her. How he made her feel.
She wished she’d worn something fancier. Something sexy with lace or silk. Wished she had the words, the moves, to show him how much she wanted to be with him, how much she needed him tonight.
Instead all she had to offer him was the truth.
“I want your hands on me,” she continued, her voice dropping. She closed the distance between them, noting how he went stone still. “All I want, just once, just for tonight, is you.”
Then she kissed him. His mouth was unyielding under hers; his hands went to her waist as if to push her away. She increased the pressure of her lips against his while she caressed the soft skin at his nape; her other hand delved into the thick strands of his hair. Pressing her body against his, she poured everything she had into that kiss, everything she was.
Everything she couldn’t say.
His fingers tightened on her waist, his thumbs pushing against her hip bones. And finally, thankfully, he groaned and kissed her back, his tongue rasping against hers.
She clutched his shoulders, molding her body to his when he tore his mouth from hers, set her away. Snatched his hands back as if she’d burned him.
But his breathing was ragged and his hands were clenched at his sides as if he didn’t trust himself to touch her.
Layne laid her hands flat against his chest. His heart pounded beneath her fingers, his muscles tensed. “Tell me you don’t want this,” she said, repeating the words he’d given her the day before when he’d kissed her. “Tell me you don’t want me.”
He trembled. The strongest, most controlled man she’d ever known trembled because she touched him. Because she wanted him. She felt powerful. Beautiful.
He shut his eyes as if in prayer. Opening them, he breathed, “Damn.”
Then he kissed her. No, it was more like an attack. His mouth was voracious, seeking. Demanding. She had no choice but to respond, to lose herself in him.
He gripped her shirt and used the tails of it to pull her even tighter against him. Her breasts brushed against the solid
planes of his chest, her stomach against the cool buckle of his belt.
She lifted her leg as far as her skirt would allow, wound it around his calf and pressed her core against him. He growled and deepened the kiss, his hands gripping her ass. She wanted to wrap herself around him. To breathe him in, to make him the only thing she knew.
Ross lifted his head, walked her backward until she was trapped between the hard edge of the kitchen island and his body, the counter digging into her lower back. He kissed her again. His hands slid under her shirt, his touch rough and bordering on desperate as he stroked the curve of her waist, her stomach.
That was what she wanted. She didn’t want it slow or gentle. No, she craved the flash of heat, the hard and fast flame of desire. The kind that left you breathless and mindless, that burned through everything leaving nothing in its wake except pleasure.
She arched into him, ran her hands over his shoulders, down his arms and back again. Needing to feel the warmth of his skin, she clawed at his shirt. He broke the kiss long enough to reach behind him, pull the shirt over his head and toss it aside. Her heart lodged in her throat. He was gorgeous, leanly muscled with golden hair on his chest that tapered, grew darker as it traveled down his flat stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. She touched him there, just above his jeans. His hair was a rough, enticing contrast against the softness of his skin. His stomach contracted and he yanked her against him, her hands caught between them.
Kissing her, he pushed her shirt from her shoulders, made quick work of her bra. Bending his head, he flicked the tip of his tongue over one taut nipple. Her body jerked. He licked her breast into his mouth and sucked hard. The sound of his low grunt of satisfaction vibrated through her veins. He kept one hand at her back, holding her lower half against him. His other hand came up to pinch and tug the nipple of her other breast.
She couldn’t catch her breath. Pressure mounted, built until she thought she’d go mad if he didn’t stop. That she’d go mad if he did. Freeing her hands, she speared her fingers into his hair, held his mouth to her breast as he nipped and sucked. Liquid heat pooled low in her belly, dampened her panties.
She rubbed against him. He kissed his way to her other breast as he used both hands to shove her skirt up over her hips. His fingers skimmed between her legs where she most ached for him, where she was wet for him. He curled his fingers around the front of her panties, his nails scraping her skin, his knuckles pressed against her hip bones as he pulled, ripping the delicate fabric.
She gasped, excitement spiraling through her. And when he finally touched her, his fingers warm and sure on her most intimate part, she lifted her hips in a silent plea. More. Harder. Faster.
Lifting his head from her breast, he stroked her. He fisted his other hand in her hair, wrapped it around his knuckles and tugged her head back. Her eyes closed as she waited for his mouth, his touch on her neck, her aching breasts. He tightened his hold on her hair and her eyes flew open, met his.
“Say my name.” His voice was gravelly, his expression hard. Savage. “I want you to say my name when I make you come.”
She shook her head. She couldn’t speak, could barely think. Her limbs were heavy, her mind hazy.
He slowed his touch, slid one finger inside her. Out. Then in again. Her body heated, her muscles contracted around him. She whimpered.
“Goddamn it, Layne,” he growled. “Say it.”
He added a second finger, stretching her. And all the while he watched her. Waited. He flicked his thumb over her center. Bent his head and scraped his whiskered cheeks against her breast, then caught her nipple between his teeth and tugged, his eyes on her. He bit her gently.
“Ross,” she breathed, as the pleasure built, coiled tighter and tighter until she fell apart. Her world exploded into a million pieces. Her muscles went lax, her mind emptied of all thoughts but one.
His name.
* * *
SWEAT SLITHERED DOWN Ross’s back and his muscles trembled as he tried to find control. Control that was hard to come by seeing as how Layne was wet and ready for him.
“Ross,” Layne repeated as she came down from her orgasm. He’d never seen anything as beautiful as her, had never been as turned on as he’d been touching her, giving her pleasure. And watching her as she came, hearing his name from her for the first time? Amazing.
She was amazing.
And she tested his willpower, his resolve, like no woman ever had. But even if he hadn’t already surrendered to her, to his own desire for her, he wouldn’t have been able to hold out now. Not when she was all flushed and warm, her skin pink, her eyes unfocused.
He loosened the hold he had on her hair but didn’t let her go. Pulled her head to him and kissed her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. All he knew was Layne. Her scent clung to his fingers, her touch burned him, her taste hadn’t abated his hunger for her. It only grew sharper, edgier with each kiss, each touch.
He kissed her hard, used his teeth and lips and tongue until she writhed against him once more. Panted into his mouth, her hands streaking over him as if she couldn’t get enough of him. Wedging an arm between them, she lowered her hand and cupped his erection through his jeans. He shuddered. Moaned. He was hard and hot and aching for her. Only her.
She pushed against him, turning them so that they reversed positions. Giving her control. He spun them again. So did she, so that when they reached the end of the island, he was against the counter and she stood between his legs, her lush breasts molded to his chest, her long, lean arms wrapped around his neck. He smoothed his hands up the silky skin on her inner thighs. Their harsh breathing filled the silence. And when he cupped her firm ass, rolled his hips against her, she went off like a gun in his arms, scratching his back, dragging him toward the kitchen table.
They came together violently, grappled for position, their hands racing over each other. He couldn’t get enough of her. Her hair was like silk hanging down her back, her skin was warm satin covering lean muscles, subtle curves. She reached for the button on his jeans, dragged his zipper down. Together they shoved his jeans and underwear to his ankles. Before he could take his boots off, she pushed him, hard, onto a chair.
He was already reaching for her when she straddled him. Her warmth surrounded him. He lifted his hips, kissing her shoulders, the long line of her neck. Sucked at the pulse beating heavily at the base of her throat. She moved, rubbing against him until he knew he’d go insane if he wasn’t inside of her. Now.
“Condom,” he managed to mumble, but he couldn’t stop touching her, his lips moving over her face, her collarbone, the tops of her breasts. His tongue tasting the salt of her skin. “Wallet. Back pocket.”
Leaning back slightly, she fumbled for his jeans, her movements against him making him insane. Finally, thankfully, she straightened, his wallet in her hand. She pulled out the foil packet, ripped it open and, reaching between them, her knuckles brushing his stomach, covered him.
He paused, the tip of his erection at her entrance, her soft, seeking hands on his shoulders. Only when she met his eyes did he slide into her.
The sound she made when he entered her almost drove him over the edge. Clenching his teeth, he gripped her waist, pumped into her. She met him thrust for thrust, her feet—still encased in those sexy shoes—flat on the floor as she rode him. He cupped her breasts, kissed that mobile mouth of hers. Their skin grew slick with sweat, their movements frenzied, frantic.
Her breath hitched and she bowed back, her body tightening around him. Her hips worked like pistons, her hands clutched his thighs. She looked at him, right at him, while her orgasm swept through her, while she tumbled and fell. Her eyes went dark, her mouth parting on a soft cry of pleasure.
His own release hit him hard and fast and with his eyes still locked on hers, he emptied himself while deep inside her.
* * *
LAYNE DIDN’T WANT to move. Ever.
Collapsed against Ross, her head on his shoulder, his heart beat
ing against her own, her body felt boneless, pleasantly sore and immensely satisfied. She was content to stay there, right there in his arms, breathing in the scent of his skin, of their sex.
He stirred, lifted her away from him. Standing next to her small kitchen table, her skin chilled, her legs unsteady, she watched as he yanked his pants up, his movements rigid with barely concealed fury. So much for her contentment. She should know by now it was nothing but a fantasy anyway.
What had she expected? she thought as she worked her skirt back down and glanced around for her shirt. Tender words? A soft touch or maybe a gentle kiss? This hadn’t been a date, hadn’t been some romantic scene from a movie.
He turned and scooped his shirt off the floor. As he put it on, the muscles of his back contracted, his skin marred by her scratch marks. He faced her, his hair mussed from her fingers, his eyes hooded. “We need to talk.”
Feeling cold, exposed, she covered her breasts with her arms. “I think we’ve said everything there is to say.” She was glad her voice came out snide, so proud it didn’t break, that none of her hurt had leaked into her words.
She spied her shirt on the floor and swept it up, shoved her arms into the sleeves and buttoned it, her fingers cold and stiff. Really, what could they possibly have to discuss? They’d had quick, semirough sex. That was all. It’d been a release and, for her, an escape.
Her fingers fumbled. She’d had quick, semirough sex with her boss, had thrown herself at him, had practically goaded him into it. Her throat closed.
No doubt about it. She was an idiot.
“I don’t like being used,” he said.
She met his eyes and wished she hadn’t. She could’ve happily lived the rest of her life without seeing the coldness there. Rubbing her hands over her chilled arms, she tossed her hair back. “You sure didn’t seem to mind my using you a few minutes ago. I didn’t exactly hold a gun to your head.”
He flushed but his eyes were hard as his gaze slid over her. “No, you didn’t need a gun to get what you wanted.”
“What we both wanted,” she snapped, crossing to pick up her beer. She took a long drink but it did nothing to ease the rawness of her throat. She’d pushed him. Worse, she’d manipulated his feelings for her. She’d known he was attracted to her and she’d used that to her advantage.