But she did. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. At the beginning of the evening it had been easy to forget reality, but after Miranda had looked at her like a sleazy social climber, and then mentioned seeing her mother on New Year’s Eve, she’d felt the difference in his touch. At first, he’d been playing with her, almost competitively upping the stakes in a game aimed at slowly and deliberately driving her out of her mind. Afterward, the playfulness disappeared from his touch. The sweep of his fingers on her shoulder, or his hand resting on her arm still advanced the charade, but—maybe this was her guilty conscience messing with her—she sensed an undercurrent of something else.
It was still there, in the clasp of his hand, something inescapable and authoritative. And that’s what had her sweating right now. Booker wanted details about her mom’s visit.
The thought of admitting Denise had shown up to extort money from her was humiliating enough, but admitting she’d given in to the demand? She’d sooner choke on her own tongue. Plus telling Booker the entire truth inevitably opened a huge can of worms. He’d insist she tell her insurance company, for starters, and that put too much at risk. Her mother had a reputation, and people around here assumed she was cut from the same cheap cloth. Nelson might think all signs pointed to an electrical fire, but what if they didn’t? What if there was just enough doubt for the insurance adjusters to point the finger at her, the woman who cleaned out her safe hours before the shop burned to the ground?
She’d lose everything.
Worst of all, Booker would be disappointed in her. She didn’t think she could take that. Tonight he’d told her he was proud of her, and though she hadn’t expected the words, they mattered to her. He trusted her, too, and that also mattered. Coming clean meant losing both. On the other hand, if she let him ask questions, not coming clean meant telling a bald-faced lie—something she’d managed to avoid doing so far, though some might argue deliberate omission amounted to the same thing.
Distraction seemed like her best option, and she knew exactly what men found most distracting about her. As they neared her front door, she turned to him, letting her breast brush his arm, and her mouth hover close to his ear. “Are you coming in, or are you going to make a liar out of me?” Or both.
He stopped on
her doorstep, and looked down at her. Streetlights cast a glow, but his eyes remained shadowed and inscrutable. “How would I do that?”
She swept her hand under his sweater and along the rugged terrain of his abs. “I told Scott I had plans for tonight.”
His hand found hers through his sweater, and covered it. Didn’t encourage her, or brush her away, just held her there. After a moment the corner of his mouth lifted. “You did.”
The small grin loosened the stiffness in her shoulders. Situation defused. Everything was going to be all right. She slid her hand down the flat plane of his stomach, until her fingers hooked into the waist of his pants. “He was a little slower on the uptake than Jessie.” She resisted mentioning Miranda had sized up the situation immediately, and was probably on the phone with Booker’s mother right now, warning the woman a tacky baker from the wrong side of town had ambitions involving her only son. Meanwhile, Booker had the nerve to call her a snob.
His teeth flashed in the moonlight. “Scott was too busy making his move on the one that got away to accurately assess the situation.”
The comment paused her in the process of closing the space between them, even though her nipples were already tight and tingly in anticipation. A laugh escaped before she could tamp down on the cynical sound. “The one that got away? I thought you didn’t want to venture into this minefield?”
“This is not a minefield.” He lifted her jacket from her arm and hung it on the doorknob, and then he splayed a hand at the center of her back and pressed their bodies together. His big thigh eased between hers. “It’s a fact.”
Pressure built everywhere they touched, along with an urgent need for friction. She couldn’t keep still, so she rose up on her toes and rubbed against him. “I hate to break it to you, but I wasn’t the one that got away. Actually, I always suspected I was his first.”
“You were undoubtedly his first.” His hand journeyed to her ass, and hauled her closer, so her toes barely touched the ground. She had no choice but to lean on him. Let him keep them upright with his strength. His mouth cruised along the side of her neck. “He looks at you with the awestruck wonder a guy reserves for the girl who shows him his first glimpse of heaven. You’re the one who got away because he never got another shot with you. Nobody has. Except me.”
The truth of his observation shook her almost as much as the certainty in his voice. Yet another reason why conversation with Booker was a dangerous thing. Fear that she actually had no secrets from the man kept her quiet, but when she didn’t immediately answer, he scraped his teeth along the curve of her shoulder, and challenged, “Fact?”
Honesty shivered out of her. “Y-yes.”
He muttered something, which sounded like, “He’ll never get another shot at you,” but she couldn’t be sure. She could barely concentrate on his words. The hard, thick length of his cock nestled against her stomach like a promise.
“Since we’re doing so well with facts, share one more with me.” His thumb strummed along her spine. He drew back and looked at her. “Did your mother’s visit have anything to do with why I woke up alone on New Year’s Day?”
Her heartbeat quickened. The question dispelled any notion her effort at distraction worked. None of her tricks worked on him. She had no control over Booker.
Control? What a joke. Practically every aspect of her life eluded her control. Her mother, who continued to find ways to bleed her, and probably would until she sucked her dry. Her burned up dream, which might never rise from the ashes if she answered his question. He saw too much, and expected too much, and, dammit, he made her want too much. She tightened her arms around his neck and drew him down until they were nearly forehead to forehead. “Booker, if you want another shot at me, take it now. I’ve been hurting all night, thanks to you, and if you’re not going to put me out of my misery, I’m going to take care of myself.”
Desperation fueled the ultimatum. A risky move for a woman who didn’t have a hell of a lot left except pride, but the glimpse of raw hunger in his eyes gave her hope. Then those eyes went dark and serious. “Welcome to my world, Jailbait. I’ve been suffering since you opened the door in two scraps of lace. Answer my question, and I’ll put us both out of our misery.”
Anger fanned flames already running through her blood. She’d had enough of people blackmailing her, be it her mom’s classic brand or Booker’s sexual brinksmanship, but she twined her fingers into his hair and swept her mouth over his in a deliberate torment as she uttered three words. “You. Wouldn’t. Dare.”
The next second strong hands cupped her jaw, capturing her, as his mouth slammed down on hers. A whole lot of heat, and need, and some barely banked male temper flowed into her mouth. She drank it down like a shot of whiskey, not caring about the burn.
And then it was gone. He stepped away so abruptly she would have fallen were it not for the door at her back. She swallowed her cry of surprise and blinked at his retreating form.
“See you around, Jailbait.”
Chapter Nine
I’ve called you. I’ve texted you. What do I get for my efforts? Silence. Don’t make me come over there…
Booker sighed at the screen of his phone. His mother rarely issued idle threats, but he planned to ignore the text anyway, because she wasn’t the woman he wanted to see right now.