by Marina Adair
Brett, on the other hand, was actually sweating a little, which gave her the courage to tell the truth. “I wear high heels because I’m only five-foot-three and they make me feel taller. It’s hard to be taken seriously when people are literally looking down at me.”
For a moment, Brett sat silent, just watching her, the earlier humor replaced with understanding. He stood, moving so close she could smell his soap, and it smelled sexy and woodsy and made her nipples stand up and take notice.
She had to force herself to stay still, to not lean forward and kiss her way up his chest. He tugged her to a stand, their bodies brushing, and even in her heels she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. He was solid muscle and man, but instead of feeling insignificant, she felt feminine.
“My mama was a tiny thing, would barely reach my chest if she were still alive. She was the strongest person I knew. You remind me of her,” he admitted in a rough voice while tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
A shiver when through her body and the smug grin that broke out on his face told her he noticed.
“Are you going to dance with me or do I have to beg, Joie?”
The way he said her name made her legs wobble. How could she survive dancing with him when all of his good parts would be touching her good parts and making her think about getting him naked? Acting impulsive in private was one thing; letting the whole town see her wild side would be disastrous.
“I don’t know,” she said, finding this whole casual business confusing. “I don’t really know how to dance country.”
“It’s called two-step and I’m a great teacher.” Taking her hand, he turned her in a little spin. When she stopped she was flush against his chest. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear and his voice warm with emotion when he whispered, “Think of it as twirling with a partner. I already know you’re an expert when it comes to twirling.”
From a distance they looked like two people about ready to hit the dance floor. But something far more powerful was happening. No lame pickup lines. No arrogant playboy. Brett McGraw was becoming a man with depth and a soft heart. A heart, she decided, that made casual impossible.
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “No pressure, Joie. When you make up your mind, just let me know.”
And then that long, easy stride of his carried him across the room, past his waiting fans, and down a hallway at the back of the bar, leaving Josephina wondering what had just happened. How had he attached emotions to what was supposed to be cut and dried?
Just before he turned the corner, he was stopped by Glory, who whispered something in his ear that made him smile. A genuine smile that was warm—real. The waitress went up on her toes, kissed him on the cheek, and Josephina looked away, calling herself a dozen different kinds of fool.
Focusing on the flatscreen over the bar and hating herself for caring, Josephina wondered how, once again, she’d let a man’s agenda completely overshadow hers. She’d come here with a plan, a good one, and with one twirl and the flash of a dimple—an extremely potent dimple—she had completely dismissed her manhunt.
She glanced at the photo of Letty and—oh, my God—squinted to read what was scrawled on the bottom of the Polaroid.
Letty Fairchild, living balls-to-the-wall.
Josephina looked over her shoulder and found Brett still standing in the same spot, his gaze locked on hers. He raised a brow and shot her an altogether different kind of smile. One that said he knew how to make a woman melt with pleasure, and he wouldn’t even have to get naked to do it. At that, something zinged through her body. Something that was bold and sensual and gave her the freedom to let her wild side take over.
Chapter 12
What the hell is wrong with you?” Brett asked himself in the bathroom mirror. He hadn’t meant to ask Joie to dance. Was pretty sure it would end with them in bed. No, he knew it would end with them in bed.
And why in the hell would that be a problem?
He banged his head against the mirror a couple more times. How was he supposed to do this whole take-it-slow-and-get-to-know-her thing when every time he looked at her he pictured her naked? And every time some other guy looked at her—and they were all looking—he felt like killing them?
“You don’t do jealous.” Brett reminded himself.
He had been fine all night. Watching her from a distance, plotting how he was going to ask her on a date. Then Jackson sent Josephina a smile, one that gave him a 99 percent chance of getting laid, and Brett came two clicks away from busting the sheriff’s teeth.
He knew that smile. Had perfected the same one. Intended using it tonight.
Damn it! What was it about Josephina Harrington that had him acting like a jealous boyfriend? She was complicated and irritating and a complete disaster.
And open and adorable and intensely real.
Hell, she got to him, and Brett hated that. The smart thing to do would be walk away. Too bad he wasn’t feeling smart at the moment.
The door swung open with such force that it must have shattered a wall tile or two. Brett looked up. The woman he’d been obsessing over was leaning against the door jamb, breathing hard, and her eyes were wild—almost as wild as her golden mass of hair, which hung down to the middle of her back.
Crazy, sexy hair.
“You lost?” he drawled, going for casual and failing miserably.
“What makes you say that?”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of lady to follow men into the john.”
“Maybe I…” She stopped talking and looked around. Taking in the urinal and condom dispenser, she gasped as if just realizing where she was, then hitched her chin higher, if that was even possible. “Maybe I do this all the time.”
“Sure you do. Tell me”—he crossed his arms over his chest—“after you threw open the door, what was your next move going to be?”
She glanced to the floor, but her face remained firm. As if determination drove her. “I was thinking I’d move toward you.”
Air caught in Brett’s lungs. His eyes roamed from her plump lips all the way down to her spiked boots, wondering if that skimpy Saints-colored shirt, which was so thin he could see her nipples budding, would slide the rest of the way down her arm with one simple tug.
“What if someone comes in?” he asked, trying to call her bluff. One of them had to act responsible, and at this point he was afraid it wouldn’t be him. He was no better than those teen boys Cal wanted to castrate.
For a moment she looked panicked, as if she were going to bolt back to safety, only she didn’t. She pushed away from the wall and took a single step closer to him. “So what if they do?”
Not good.
“Look, sugar, how’s about we go have us that dance?” He grimaced at how his accent kept sneaking out. Whenever he got rattled he started smoothing out his vowels and dropping his Rs.
Like now. Standing here, with her, in close quarters, when he was trying to do the gentlemanly thing. Hard task, when there was obviously something more than just scorching chemistry between them—although it had tractor loads of that.
Nope, this something made him want to run like hell and take her up on what her eyes were offering, all at the same time.
“That’s why I came in here.” She continued toward him, her hips swaying and tugging the hem of her skirt higher with every step. “To tell you, I made up my mind.” Not stopping until she was standing between his feet, she placed a hand on his chest. “And I don’t want to dance.”
“Okay.” He took a step back. “You hungry? Maybe we could go grab a bite?”
The universe was conspiring against him, because for every step back he took, she took one forward.
“Not hungry. For food anyway.” She paused and tilted her head to the side as if trying to get a read on him. Whatever she saw on his face made her grin. “Brett McGraw, are you running from me?”
Yes. “No, ma’am.” His back hit the wall.
She ran both hands up his c
hest and back down, stopping just short of his waistband.
“Sure seems like you’re coming after me, though.”
And that wasn’t a Joie move at all. She’d been ignoring him for weeks. But now? The woman was stalking him like a mountain lion would its prey. Which shouldn’t matter, but for some reason, with her, it did.
Her hands instantly stopped the exploration of his chest. Her smile faded. And those eyes, those blue doe-eyes that kept him up at night, no longer broadcast heat and wild promise but uncertainty and—aw, Christ—shame.
“Oh.” She dropped her hands and took a shaky step back. Her fingers flew to her hair, smoothing it down. Something, he realized, she did when she was nervous. “I did it again, didn’t I? You were just flirting with me while you were waiting for Glory to get off. I made something out of nothing.”
If this was nothing, he didn’t think he’d survive something.
“I’m such an idiot.” She took another step back, and right before she turned to bolt, he reached out and clasped her hand.
“It’s something, Joie,” he said, pulling her toward him, so close that her body, soft as hell, pressed up against his. Without hesitation, Brett pressed his lips to hers, landing with enough pressure to let her know just how much of a something there was between them.
He didn’t want her thinking Glory was the woman he wanted. And he sure as shit didn’t ever want to see her look as vulnerable as she had a second ago.
He pulled back slightly. “I was waiting for you. I was waiting to see if you’d change your mind and wanted to dance with me.”
“You don’t have to pretend to make me feel better.”
“I’m not pretending,” he whispered, his voice all but disappearing under the muffled hum of the music. “Trust me, there is nothing I want to do more than make you feel better.”
His hands slid down to the small of her back, pulling her body into his and pressing her against his hard proof.
Bad move.
Her blue eyes zeroed in on his mouth and he felt her body melt into his. A heat started well below his belt buckle, and somehow slid upward, settling into his chest.
“Joie,” he heard himself sigh when her hand wrapped around the back of his neck and she tugged him down, lightly pressing her mouth to his.
He stood perfectly still as she gently—nervously—nipped and coaxed his mouth. He tried to recall all the reasons why they should wait. But then her soft palms slid under his shirt up his chest, making her intentions very clear as she gingerly traced every inch of his torso with her fingertips, sending his body into overdrive.
“I want you, Joie,” he groaned against her lips. “I have since I saw you walking down that highway.”
At his comment her mouth turned more aggressive, and so did her hands. She yanked them out from under his shirt, only to push him up against the wall. Her body was tense and her movements desperate.
Something’s not right, he dazedly thought. This wasn’t Joie. Her hands were all over him, pulling him closer, but he’d never felt so separated from her.
“Want you, too,” she murmured, tunneling her fingers through his hair. As if desperate for his taste, her mouth was back on his, kissing the hell out of him.
He felt himself unraveling, splitting at the seams. And it wasn’t from her mouth working his, although if he were being honest it was one of the hottest kisses of his life. No, what got to him was the underlying vulnerability behind every sweet stroke of her lip.
“Slow down, sugar. You’re not making this easy.” He tangled his hand in her hair, his fingers gently stroking the base of her neck. Her pulse exploded under his touch.
“Really?” She exhaled against his mouth, sending a warm puff of air skating across his damp lips. “Let me help with that, then.”
She slid her hands up her thighs until they disappeared beneath her skirt. When they came back out they brought a pair of—hello—sheer black panties with them.
Sheer. Black. Panties.
He was so screwed. He told himself to look away. But then she started shimmying and wiggling—which did amazing things in moving her shirt lower—and the scrap of lace slid to the floor. And yeah, he looked. Hell, not looking wasn’t even an option.
He ran a hand down his face and acknowledged just how fucked up this whole situation was. For the first time in his adult life, Brett had wanted to take it slow. But the girl next door stood looking at him, panties around her ankles, her eyes promising one hell of a ride.
The game had changed somewhere along the way and he was pretty sure he wasn’t playing with a complete set of rules.
Her heels tapped on the floor. Click.
Ah, shit. Neither was she.
Click. Click. Click
Stepping out of those panties, she made her way back to him, those damn heels creating the sexiest click against the tile, just as they had that day on the hot pavement.
“Does that clear things up, Brett?”
Fuck yeah it did.
Her fingers tugged at the buttons on his shirt, quickly unfastening each and every one. He was mentally reciting all the reasons this was a bad idea when those lush lips of hers trailed over his chest and his dick was too busy praying that she’d head south for a visit to read the memo that this was not happening.
Not here and not now.
“What are you doing to me, Joie?” He ran a hand down her back and lower—telling himself that he was just doing a little recon, checking to see if he could feel a difference sans the panties.
He could.
“Like I said. I want you.” She kissed his neck, his chin, his jaw. His brain went fuzzy when she licked his lower lip, giving a little nibble before letting go.
And wasn’t that a miracle, because he wanted her, too. Bad. Untamed, fairy-wing-wearing Joie could kiss. She also knew how to render a man stupid with those hands of hers, hands that were doing a little recon on their own, right down his back to his ass, and—sweet baby Jesus—around the front.
“Sugar, want doesn’t even begin to explain what I’m feeling,” he said against her lips. “Which is why you should be telling me to stop.”
“You’re right.” She positioned herself closer, doing a little shimmy with her hips that blew his mind. “We should stop.”
“We should,” he agreed absently as he skimmed his lips down the delicate ridge of her throat. “Getting caught making out in a bathroom with a New York socialite would send my sponsors running.”
“Thank God I don’t want to just make out.” She kissed her way to his ear, her breath hot against his skin when she added, “And I’m not a socialite. I’m a business owner.”
“I’ve always had a thing for business owners,” he said, and felt her smile against his neck.
“Let me guess, it’s the skirts.”
He pulled back. Her eyes were heavy. Heated.
“Maybe it’s just you I have a thing for,” he admitted, trailing a single finger up, gently skimming over the swell of her cleavage, loving the way she whispered his name.
So he did it again, and her hand dropped to trace the hard ridge of him through his denim.
Yeah, it was her all right. One brush of her hand and breathing seemed to piss off his chest, so he gave up, instead focusing on how incredible she felt. How amazingly soft her hand was as it glided up the front of his pants and then—bingo, button popped—back down underneath the waistband of his jeans.
That was his cue to stop, to tell her that he wanted to take his time, wanted to make this perfect, wanted to make her see how special she was. No, that last part was a “needed to,” only Joie wrapped her sweet fingers around him—holy shit—they were magical, working him with the exact amount of pressure to make his eyes roll to the back of his head and his hips buck into her hand.
Clearly, his dick was in complete control, overruling every rational reason why they should slow down, because instead of putting on the brakes, he found himself gauging just how big the stall looked. Joie’s gaze
followed his and she started leading him closer and his hands went to her hips, backing her up, and Jesus they were an inch away from doing it against the stall door—and his life being complete.
Except then he’d be that guy, the one who had bathroom sex with an incredible woman, okay, amazing bathroom sex because yeah, it would be off the charts, but it would still be sex in a public place where anyone could walk in and see. And she would never forgive herself. And he didn’t want that for her.
“Not here,” he rasped, gripping her hips and backing her against the wall when she had him one stroke away from saying fuck it and giving in. He captured her hands and anchored them above her head. With a gentle squeeze on her wrists he said, “Not like this, okay?”
She nodded breathlessly, staring at him for a long, intense second. Brett traced his fingers down her smooth forearms, over her collarbone, promising himself that he would stop there. Too bad Joie had other ideas, which included dragging his hand a little lower to rest on her incredible breasts.
They were even better than he imagined. Almost better than the sexy little sounds that fell from her lips when she fisted her fingers tightly in his hair and took his mouth in a searing kiss.
Almost.
God, he could kiss her for hours—days. Loving the way she tasted, the way her lips teased and nibbled, the way she all but climbed up his body trying to get closer.
She must have misunderstood the “not like this” part of the conversation, because she switched things up again, changing the rules. Clutching the condom dispenser for balance, she lifted her leg and locked it behind his back. The tip of her boot snagged the waist of his pants, digging into his skin. The sting of that sharp heel across his ass was freaking life-altering.
“Counter,” she whispered, her voice sounding as surprised as he felt when she started rocking against his thigh. Two seconds of that little slice of heaven and he could feel her body tighten, feel his resistance slipping. “Get me to the counter.”
Un-fucking-believable. They were both still clothed—well, mostly—and he was pretty sure that she was two rocks away from—