John glanced back up into her face, unmoved. She was gorgeous. Curvy and soft in an overblown, breathy sort of way. Her long legs were beautifully shaped, and she was exactly the type of woman he preferred naked and in bed. Earlier today he’d accepted the fact that he couldn’t have Georgeanne. That didn’t bother him all that much, but it bugged the hell out of him that she only pretended she couldn’t wait to get her hot little hands all over his body. When he’d told her they couldn’t make love, her pouty little mouth had ooohed and cooed her disappointment, but her eyes had sparked with utter relief. In fact, he’d never seen such relief on a woman’s face.
“It was a boating accident,” she informed him as if he’d asked. She took a sip of orange juice, then added, “Off the coast of Florida.”
John stabbed a bite of ham, then reached for his coffee. Women liked him. Women shoved their phone numbers and underwear in his pockets. Women didn’t look at John as if sex with him were tantamount to root canal.
“It was a miracle that I wasn’t with them. My parents hated to leave me, of course, but I’d contracted the chicken pox. So reluctantly they’d left me with my grandmother, Clarissa June. I remember…”
Tuning out her words, John lowered his gaze to the soft hollow of her throat. He wasn’t a conceited man, or at least he didn’t think he was. But the fact that Georgeanne found him so totally resistible irritated him more than he liked to admit. He set his coffee mug on the table and folded his arms across his chest. After his shower, he’d changed into a clean pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. He still planned to go out. All he had to do was grab his shoes and go.
“But Mrs. Lovett was as cold as a Frigidaire,” Georgeanne continued, leaving John to wonder how the subject had shifted from her parents to refrigerators. “And tacky… cryin‘ all night, she was tacky. When LouAnn White got married, she gave her”- Georgeanne paused, her green eyes sparkling with animation-“a Hot Dogger. Can you believe it? Not only did she give an appliance, she gave a little machine that electrocutes weenies!”
John tilted his chair back on two legs. He distinctly remembered a conversation he’d had with her about rambling. He guessed she just couldn’t help herself. She was a tease and a chatter hound.
Georgeanne pushed her plate to the side and leaned forward. The robe parted as she confided, “My grandmother used to say that Margaret Lovett was just too tacky for Technicolor.”
“Are you doing that on purpose?” he asked.
Her eyes rounded. “What?”
“Flashing me your breasts.”
She looked down, eased away from the table, and clutched the robe to her throat. “No.”
The front legs of the chair hit the floor as John rose to his feet. He looked into her wide eyes and gave in to insanity. Holding out his hand, he ordered, “Come here.” When she stood before him, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her tight against his chest. “I’m leaving now,” he said, sinking into her soft curves. “Kiss me good-bye.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Awhile,” he answered, feeling his body grow heavy.
Like a cat stretching on a warm windowsill, Georgeanne arched against him and wound her arms around his neck. “I could go with you,” she purred.
John shook his head. “Kiss me and mean it.”
She rose onto the balls of her feet and did what he asked. She kissed like a woman who knew what she was doing. Her parted lips pressed softly into his. She tasted of orange juice and the promise of something sweeter. Her tongue touched, swirled, caressed, and teased. She ran her fingers through his hair as the arch of her foot slipped up his calf. Pure lust shot up the backs of his legs, took hold of his insides, and gave a good hard tug.
She was a pro, and he eased back far enough to look into her face. Her lips were shiny, her breath slightly uneven, and if her eyes had shown the slightest hint of the same hunger he felt, he would have turned and walked out the door. Satisfied.
John’s gaze shifted to the soft mahogany curls surrounding her face. The light shimmered in each silky corkscrew, and he wanted to bury his hands in them. He knew he should leave. Just turn and walk out. Instead, he looked back into her eyes.
He wasn’t satisfied. Not yet. He planted one hand on the back of her head, tilted her face to the side, and soul-kissed her to the bottoms of her feet. While his mouth feasted at hers, he walked her backward until her behind hit the edge of the china hutch doubling as a trophy cabinet. His kiss continued, across her cheek and along her jaw. His lips slipped to the side of her neck, and he pushed her hair down her back. She smelled of flowers and warm feminine skin, and he slid the silk robe from her shoulder. He felt her stiffen in his arms and told himself that he should stop. “You smell good,” he said into the side of her throat.
“I smell like a man,” she laughed nervously.
John smiled. “I’ve been around men all of my life. Believe me, honey, you don’t smell like a man.” He slipped his fingertips beneath one emerald strap of her bra and kissed the soft skin of her throat.
Instantly she covered his hand with hers. “I thought we weren’t going to make love.”
“We’re not.”
“Then what are we doing, John?”
“Foolin‘ around.”
“Doesn’t that lead to making love?” She grabbed her other shoulder and crossed her arms over her breasts.
“Not this time. So relax.” John moved his hands to the backs of her smooth thighs, grabbed ahold, and lifted. Before she could utter an objection, he plopped her down on top of the hutch, then stepped between her thighs.
“John?”