“Yes, I do.”
He laid his lips against her ear and pressed his hand flat against her stomach, fingers pointing downward. “Should I stop here?”
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“Yes.”
“I can give you pleasure, Sunny, with just my fingertips. With just a touch.”
“No. Stop.”
“You don’t want me to touch you where you’re all warm and creamy?”
“No,” she sobbed.
“You’re a liar, Sunny Chandler,” he whispered huskily.
Sunny wanted to collapse against him. She longed to rest her head on the welcome support of his chest and draw on his strength. And, with scalding shame, she admitted to herself that she wanted his hand caressing her until the achy, feverish longing was banished.
But she struggled against her weakness and raised her head. By an act of will she converted her passion to animosity. Her lips were bruised, marked not only by their kisses, but also by her own teeth in an effort to hold back her cries of surrender. Her golden eyes were glittering with defiance.
“All you’ve proved is that I’m human, made of flesh and not of stone. I’ll go to bed with you now if that’s what you want. You can win your wager. You can salve your phenomenal ego by maintaining your bedroom track record.” She drew a shaky breath. “But when it’s over, I’ll still love Don. And you’ll know that my heart wasn’t in it. I’ll have used you just as you’ve used me. Is that what you want?”
Ty had made a serious tactical error and he knew it.
Cursing his poor judgment, he drained the umpteenth cup of coffee he’d drunk since returning from Sunny’s lake cabin. He hadn’t even gone to bed, knowing that it would be useless. He wouldn’t sleep. Between desire and self-flagellation, he’d stay awake all night anyway. So he had chosen to brew a pot of coffee and wait out the night with it.
Now, as the sun was creeping over the eastern horizon, he still remonstrated with himself for the way he’d bungled things last night.
When backed into a corner any wounded animal was going to scratch. When he had told Sunny she didn’t, couldn’t, love Don Jenkins, it was predictable that she would swear on a stack of Bibles she did.
Why had he realized that too late?
“Because I’m stupid, that’s why,” he mumbled as he left his chair. He rinsed his cup out at the sink, unplugged the coffeemaker, and made his way through the shadowed house toward his bedroom. He happened to glance at his reflection in the mirror over his dresser. He had the bloodshot, bleary eyes of a drunk after a three-day binge. His beard was much darker than his hair and heavily shadowed the lower half of his face. His shirt was unbuttoned all the way, the shirttail hanging limply against his thighs. He looked thoroughly disreputable and nothing like the way the chief law enforcer of Latham Parish should look.
Lathering his face at the bathroom sink, he once again reviewed the events of last night. Sunny was all woman, no doubt about it. A sensuous, passionate woman. It had made her mad as hell for him to cut their foreplay short and rush off to the drive-in. If he had carried her from his kitchen into the bedroom, she wouldn’t have resisted. Oh, she might have put up some token resistance, her nature being what it was, but no real resistance.
He had decided after their first meeting that the only way he could woo Sunny Chandler was by not doing anything. It had become immediately apparent to him she couldn’t be flattered; she was inured to flattery. She couldn’t be cajoled; she was too smart. He couldn’t appeal to her pity; she wouldn’t have believed him.
Instinctively he had known that the only way he could successfully get her into his bed was to inform her outright of what he was going to do, and then not try very hard to do it. Come on strong and then retreat. Confusion was the key. By the time he made his final move, the poor girl would be so confused by his clever tactics she would be relieved to fall into his bed.
All had been going well and according to plan. But he hadn’t counted on the monumental roadblock of her fancying herself still in love with Don Jenkins.
He cut himself on the chin. He cursed the dull blade and angrily tossed the disposable razor into the waste-paper basket. Shedding his clothes, he stepped into the shower and turned on the faucets full blast. Maybe the hard spray would beat some sense into his skull.
In love with Jenkins! Ha! What a crock of crap.
He soaped himself, frowning at the thought of Sunny still besotted by that wimp. Couldn’t she see Jenkins was wrong for her? Didn’t she realize everything he’d said about Jenkins’s insecurity was true? Sure, it was armchair psychology. But it was so obvious any idiot should be able to see his theory was well founded.
Jenkins was the only man ever to hurt her. She was like a child who had been denied one single toy out of a boxful. Jenkins was the one she wanted only because she knew she couldn’t have him. If she had truly loved him, as she claimed, she would have forgiven him any indiscretion and married him anyway. Why couldn’t she see the truth?
Ty turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He dried himself in a hit-or-miss fashion. Padding naked into his bedroom, he began plowing through his bureau drawers looking for underwear and matching socks.
Sunny knew how to give just as much as she got. She’d scored a major point by calling his bluff and telling him she’d go to bed with him. Just for sex. No emotion.
Why the hell hadn’t he taken her up on that offer? Why hadn’t he scooped her in his arms and hauled her into the bedroom? He would have pumped thoughts of Don Jenkins, and any other man she’d ever met, right out of her mind. At least he would have gotten rid of what he was now having a helluva time stuffing into his briefs.
He cursed his swollen manhood. Cursed the golden woman who had made it that way. Cursed his own susceptibility to her. Cursed himself for not going to one of the many women who would have been all too willing to make his underwear fit this morning.