Except when they swayed, she slid from one side to the other. The leather rubbed against the backs of her thighs and she couldn’t help but remember Dillon’s hands gliding along her bare skin, cupping her bottom and pulling her closer—
Stop, already.
She stiffened and let the stinging wind whip some sense into her.
You don’t want to have sex. You don’t want to have sex. You don’t want to have sex.
She recited the silent mantra and managed to distract herself all of five seconds before they veered to the right. The motorcycle hit a rut and jumped. She jerked on the seat, slid forward and just like that, she raced right back into the land of temptation.
She caught her bottom lip against a fierce burst of pleasure. She tangled her fingers in the soft cotton of his T-shirt, eager to keep her hands anchored in place at his waist. The last thing she needed was for him to know exactly how turned on she was.
While he’d made a few moves, he hadn’t made the move—no whipping off his clothes and having sex with her. Which meant he didn’t find her completely and totally irresistible.
Still, he had to be a little turned on, right?
She couldn’t help but wonder. A curiosity that could be easily satisfied with a little southward gravitation of her hands. A few inches lower. A few strokes here. A few strokes there.
You don’t want to have sex, remember? You don’t want to have sex. You don’t want to have sex. You don’t.
Another bump and her body jumped. Her hands slipped. Her fingers grazed his crotch—accidentally, of course—and his spine went ramrod straight.
He was turned on, all right, and there was nothing little about it.
The knowledge stirred a burst of satisfaction that she wasn’t alone in her desperation. At the same time, it made her that much more aware that she wasn’t alone in her desperation.
Dillon wanted her, all right.
But enough to make the first move?
She felt the tautness of his muscled abs through the thin cotton of his shirt. Her nostrils flared and the scent of him—denim and fresh air and a wildness that stirred something deep and primal inside of her—slid into her head and skimmed across her senses. Stirring and rousing.
Another bump and she rubbed deliciously against him. Once. Twice.
By the time they skidded to a stop, Meg’s entire body buzzed with awareness.
She hoped Dillon felt the same, but then he climbed from the bike and killed their connection, and she wasn’t so sure. Even more, his voice was as smooth, as controlled as always and her hopes plummeted.
“We’re here.” He took both her hands, his fingers burning into her as he helped her get her footing. “Any ideas where we’re at?”
She had ideas, all right.
Unfortunately, none involved their location.
She tried to ignore the way her nipples rubbed against her bra with each breath she took. Her legs trembled and her thighs ached, and none of it had to do with the ride they’d just taken. No, she couldn’t help but anticipate the ride ahead.
Dillon over her, between her legs, his hands trailing over her body—
“Are you okay?” His deep voice shattered the image, pulling her back to the present, to the man standing in front of her and the distinct possibility that he didn’t find her half as exciting as she found him.
Duh. You already know that. Last night was proof. Just give it up and focus on learning as much as possible. This isn’t about Dillon. It’s about wowing Colt Grainger, and every other available man in town.
It was, she told herself, ignoring a ripple of disappointment.
“Meg?” Dillon’s voice pushed into her thoughts.
“Fine,” she finally managed. “I’m great.”
“Good. Come on.” He led her several feet, the deep, husky timber of his voice guiding and coaxing, until they finally stopped and he let go of her.
“Any ideas?” he asked after several long moments.
“None that are G-rated.” The words were out before she could think better of them.
A warm chuckle sizzled along her nerve endings and she felt the powerful presence in front of her. “X-rated thoughts mean you’re in tune with your body, which is definitely good.” The presence shifted, and suddenly she felt him next to her. “Listen to your surroundings.” He continued to circle, his voice suddenly behind her. “Drink in the different scents.” She heard him on her left this time. “Feel.” He’d made a complete circle to stand in front of her again. “And tell me where you’re at.”
“I guess this means we’re doing three lessons all at once. Which is good,” she rushed on, dodging another niggle of disappointment. “Tilly announces her new list in a little over a week, which doesn’t give me much time. So the quicker we get this over with, the better.” Really. She drew a deep breath and braced herself.
She ignored the urge to reach out and set her mind to the task at hand. Her ears prickled and her nostrils flared and she concentrated on tuning in to her surroundings rather than the man who stood so close.
Too close.
The seconds ticked by. “Let’s talk sounds,” he finally said. “What do you hear?”
“Nothing, really.” Just the steady thud of his boots on the soft earth as he circled her, the brush of denim against denim with each step, the soft in and out of his breaths.
“What about smell? You have to smell something.”
“I can’t actually distinguish anything.” Except the detergent from his freshly laundered T-shirt, the faint whiff of aftershave. The sharp scent of desire carried on the breeze, circling her, surrounding her, along with the man himself.
“What do you feel?”
You.
The truth vibrated through her, pushing and pulling at her already tentative control. The sensations assaulted her again—the deep timbre of his voice, the raw, stirring scent of his body, the awareness that he stood right next to her, in front of her, surrounding her.
Her fingers itched and her nipples ached and she wanted to reach out more than she wanted her next breath.
“Come on, sugar,” Dillon pressed. “Tell me.”
“I…” She licked her lips. “I—I don’t have a clue.” She shook her head. “This just isn’t working.” She reached for the blindfold, but he stepped up behind her and caught her hands before she could pull the material from her eyes.
“Easy.” The word rumbled in her ears as he checked the blindfold, his fingertips lingering at her temples, feathering over her cheeks, down the smooth column of her throat. “You’re too wound up.” The pad of one finger lingered at her pulse beat. “You need to relax.” He drew a lazy circle against the area. “Think about something else.”
His touch, so soft and rousing, played over her neck, her collarbone, and she felt some of her tension slip away. He seemed to feel it, too, and he kept going, trailing his fingertips over her shoulders. He massaged and stroked, working his way down her arms.
She barely kept from groaning. “You’ve got really good hands.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.” He kneaded her palms for several long moments before his touch drifted back up, softer this time, mesmerizing as he teased the insides of her wrists, her elbows, her biceps. Finally, his hands circled her waist. “Tell me about your first sexual encounter.”
She became acutely aware of the fingers that splayed against her rib cage. A burst of panic went through her, a bubble that quickly popped and fizzled, the steady touch lulling her as much as the hypnotic stroking a moment ago. “Do I have to?”
A warm chuckle vibrated the air around them. “That bad, huh?”
“Aren’t all first times?”
He stiffened. “Our first kiss was pretty awful.”
“Awful doesn’t even begin to describe it. Try rotten. Horrible. Disastrous.”
“Don’t be shy, sugar. Tell me what you really think.” He said the words jokingly, but they were laced with a hurt that reached out and tugged at
something inside of her.
“The second kiss was much better,” she heard herself say. “You’ve definitely mastered the art.”
“So have you. You have great lips. Soft. Full.” Kissable.
The last comment slid into her ears and whispered through her head. Warmth crept through her and she felt herself relax even more.
“So,” he went on. “On a scale of one to ten—” he sounded only mildly interested, but she could feel the expectancy that gripped his body “—how would you rate last night?”
“I don’t know…maybe a seven.”
“Seven?” He stiffened. “It was at least an eight.”
“If it hadn’t been so quick. But the short duration kicked it down a notch. If you want eight, you’ll have to take your time.”
“I just might do that.”
The implication of his words stirred a flood of anticipation. Her tummy tingled and her heart gave a traitorous double thump.
“Forget your first time,” he went on, his lips grazing her ear. “Tell me about your most memorable sexual encounter.”
No. That’s what she should have said. Followed by a “Please, let’s keep this arrangement as impersonal as possible. That way I won’t jump you, I won’t be tempted to jump you, and I won’t morph into Manhandler Meg.”
Maybe it was the blindfold that made the moment seem almost surreal and, therefore, not as threatening. Or maybe she’d proved to herself last night that she could stand strong and resist making the first move. Maybe a little of both. Either way, she heard herself murmur, “Okay.”
Besides, Dillon was her friend. He always had been. He’d been there before her father had died, standing on the sidelines cheering her on when she’d tried out for the soccer team and then the baseball team, and even kicker on the boys’ football team. He’d been there to console her when disaster had struck and her father had been killed. He’d gone with her to the funeral home and helped her pick out the casket and held her hand while she’d cried until she couldn’t cry anymore. And he’d been there every day since, listening when she wanted to talk, reassuring her whenever she got discouraged at work.
She could tell him anything. Everything. And suddenly she wanted to.
“Set the scene. Where were you?” His deep voice filled her ears and she became instantly aware of the strong, warm hands that slid up to cup her breasts.
She had the fleeting thought that this went far beyond the usual conversation between even the best of friends, but she couldn’t stop the answer that bubbled on her lips. “In my boutique.”
“What did you smell?”
She took a deep breath. The sweet, intoxicating fragrance of cherries spiraled through her head, along with a dozen other distinct scents. Her nostrils flared and her chest heaved. “Fruit and chocolate and something else…a wildness, like the air when the sky’s about to open up just before a big storm.”
Like now.
It was him—his raw sexuality and insatiable hunger—that drifted through her head and teased her senses.
“What did you feel?”
“The hard counter at my back,” she murmured. “Strong, purposeful hands trailing over my body.” She trembled as heat swept through her.
“What else?” he prompted.
“A wetness between my legs…” Her breath caught and her legs threatened to buckle as she relived the memory for the next few moments. His lips and tongue caressing and devouring and—
“Here?” The word drew her away from the memory, back to the present and the fingertip that brushed across her crotch. A sharp bolt of desire shot from her head to the tips of her toes. She caught a gasp and bit down on her bottom lip.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She nodded as he circled the sensitive area with his fingertips. “Remembering a sexy encounter gets your juices flowing. It stirs you up and makes your body yearn for more.” His touch drifted a delicious inch lower and his fingertips caught her hem. And then she felt him through the thin satin of her thong. He circled her before his touch drifted an inch lower and he stroked the slit between her legs. “Do you want more, Meg?”
She fought for her voice, but the soft, whispering strokes made it difficult. “I…”
“I didn’t hear you, sugar.” His finger went back and forth and her knees trembled. “Come on. Tell me.”
Her mouth opened and the frantic yes rushed to her lips at the same time that her brain issued a firm don’t do it!
“You know you want me.”
She did, and if she said it out loud, so would he.
She wouldn’t be able to stop herself then. She would act on her want without ever knowing if the feeling was mutual. Without ever knowing if he wasn’t just going along with the situation because he was horny and she was handy.
Without ever really knowing that he wanted her.
“I want to make the next Hot Chicks list,” the words rushed out.
She snatched off the blindfold and found herself staring out over a blaze of twinkling lights, her toes flush with a sharp ledge high above the small town.
“Crazy Cooter’s Ridge,” she gasped as realization struck.
She was standing at the drop-off point where, ages ago, Cooter McWilliams had taken a nosedive to his death after his prize-winning hog, Gracie, had run away from home—hence the crazy tagged on to his name. Gracie had turned up a few days later, but Cooter had already taken the plunge and so the pig had inherited a shitload of money and had lived the high life at a local pet resort for several years before dying of old age. The huge cliff that overlooked the town had since become a ripe make-out spot for the local kids on the weekends.
Tonight was a school night, and so the area was deserted.
The wind licked at the tips of her bare toes peeking from her high-heeled sandals. Panic rushed through her as her mind rifled back through the past few moments. The wind whispering around her, the hands teasing her, Dillon circling her, his voice coming from one side then the other. The back and then the front—
Impossible!
She’d been in this exact spot before he’d started talking. Standing at the edge. There’d been no ground in front of her. No place for him to stand. To walk. To tease. Unless…
She remembered dreaming of him standing on her balcony. The way his eyes had blazed first one color and then the other. The way he seemed to always know what she was thinking, as if he could see into her thoughts and read her mind.
Yeah, sure.
Denial rushed through her. She was making something out of nothing. Maybe she was hard of hearing. Or maybe the wind had thrown her off. Or the high altitude. Or maybe she was just plain nuts.
The last one would certainly explain why no man wanted to jump her bones. Men thought women were complicated enough. Throw insane into the mix and, well, it didn’t make for the most attractive package.
“I guess I get a great big zero for this lesson, don’t I?” She started to turn, but he stopped her, his arms on either side of her, anchoring her in front of him.
“Not if you learned something from it.”
“Such as?”
“Trust your instincts. That’s the real key to being irresistible. A woman who trusts herself, who listens to her body and lets it guide her, is the ultimate in sexy. If you’re feeling sexy, you act it.”
“And if I don’t feel sexy?” she managed to ask, despite every nerve in her body which screamed otherwise.
She needed to put some distance between them. He was too close, his chest cushioning her back, his hands anchored around her waist, fingertips burning through the thin material of her shirt. And damned if she didn’t want him even closer, his hands under her shirt, between her legs.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said as if reading her thoughts.
“Easy for you to say,” she said, her voice shaking. “If we plunge to our death, I’m going over the edge first. At least you’ll have a cushion to land on. I’ll be flat on the ground.”
“Yo
u underneath me,” he mused. “I could think of worse ways to go.”
“Seriously.” Her heart pounded in her chest. “I know the view is great and everything, but I really don’t like this.” She didn’t want to like it.
To like him.
He tightened his arms around her waist. “I won’t let you fall.”
No, he wouldn’t let her fall. He would push her right over the edge, and suddenly that scared her more than anything else—the notion of falling, helplessly, hopelessly, for Dillon Cash.
“I—I’m afraid of heights,” she blurted. Liar.
He didn’t move for several moments. He just stood there, his hands touching her, his body surrounding her, as if he didn’t buy her explanation. As if the more he touched her, the more he could shake her control. He knew it. And so did she.
“Please,” she added. Please.
Just like that, he let go. By the time she turned, he was already several yards away.
A strange sensation swept up her spine, but then he turned and his gaze collided with hers. Moonlight spilled down around them, outlining his powerful frame, making him seem taller, more imposing. His eyes seemed to glitter with an intensity that sucked the air from her lungs and made her heart beat even faster. “Let’s go.”
A trick of the light, she told herself as she forced her wobbly legs to move. She climbed on behind him, careful to keep her back straight and her hold loose as she slid her arms around his waist.
With her eyes wide-open this time, the ride back to town was even more stirring than the ride to Cooter’s Ridge. Not only could she hear and smell and feel, but she could see him, as well—the wide expanse of his back, his broad shoulders, his muscular, tattooed arms. His powerful hands gripped the handlebars, his fingers flexing as he guided the bike with the controlled ease of someone who’d been riding his entire life.
He hadn’t, she reminded herself. Months ago, he’d been as awkward, as uncertain, as unsexy as she was.
And just as desperate for a change.
She clung to the thought and tried to ignore the desire bubbling through her. A useless effort with most of her senses in major overload. One sweet, succulent taste of him and she would surely go over the edge.
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