“I don’t want you to take me home. I want to stay with you.”
“You’re still turned around.”
“Do I look turned around?”
He managed to step back, a foot away. “Maybe I’m turned around.”
“I don’t mind that.” She rose. “I might even like it. We won a battle, Boyle, together. I want to be with you, to hold on to you, to go to bed with you.”
“I think . . . the sensible thing is to take some time, to talk about that before . . . that.”
“I thought I was the one who talked too much.” She took a step toward him, then another.
“You do, Jesus, you do. But I think, under the circumstances . . . We’ll talk later,” he said, and grabbed her.
“Perfect,” she said, and grabbed him back.
13
HER FEET LEFT THE FLOOR AGAIN, A GIDDY SENSATION WITH HER MOUTH PRESSED TO HIS. He had a hand fisted on the back of her sweater as if he might rip it away at any second, which would have suited her just fine. If she could have managed it, she’d have wiggled right out of the sweater—and everything else.
“We need to—” Whatever he’d meant to say slid away as her mouth came back, avidly, to his.
“Where’s the bedroom?” It had to be close, and if not, the saggy couch looked more than adequate.
“It’s . . .” He tried to think through the hot haze in his brain, then just gripped her ass, gave her a boost. She hooked her legs around his waist as her arms chained around his neck.
Everything tilted and sizzled. She had a vague impression of a dimly lit room, some clutter, some of which he kicked away as he carted her to a bed with dark wooden spindles and cool white sheets.
Then she might have been anywhere—the forest, the ocean, a city sidewalk, a country meadow. There was nothing but him, the weight of him pressed down on her, the big hands roaming, the urgent mouth seeking, taking. Nothing but those cool white sheets growing warmer, warmer as he tugged the sweater over her head, tossed it aside.
Everything about her was so small and exquisite. The breasts that fit so perfectly into his palms, the hands that dived under his shirt to glide over his skin. He wasn’t a clumsy man, but feared he would be with her, and tried to slow his pace, smooth out his rhythm.
But her hips arched up, her fingers dug into bunched muscles, urging him on.
He wanted her naked, as simple and basic as that. He wanted that pretty little body uncovered for him, stripped bare for his hands, for his mouth.
He reached down, tugged at the buckle of her belt. She spoke, the words muffled against his lips.
“What? What?” If she’d said stop, he’d kill himself.
“Boots.” Her lips roamed over his face, then her teeth nipped at his jaw. “Boots first.”
“Boots. Right. Right.” Already winded, and a bit disconcerted by it, he slid down, knelt at the foot of the bed, yanked at her right boot. He tossed it; it landed with an abrupt thump. As he tugged on the left, she levered up, got a grip on his hair and yanked his head back to hers.
“You look— It’s all shadowy, and I can just hear the rain starting, and my heart’s pounding so hard.” She punctuated the words with wild kisses. This time when he threw the boot, something crashed and shattered.
“Yours, let me get yours.” She wiggled back for his boot. “They have to go, have to go because I have to get you naked or I’ll go out of my mind.”
“I was thinking the same of you.”
“Good, good.” Her laugh, shaky with nerves and excitement, raced up his spine. “Same page, same station.” She shoved the first boot to the floor. “Put your hands on me, would you? Anywhere, everywhere. I’ve almost got this.”
She couldn’t know it, but she’d gotten her wish. She’d dazzled him. “Will it shut you up?”
“Maybe. Probably. There!” She pried off the boot, dropped it.
And flew at him.