“I’m tired.” She couldn’t remember what came next in the speech. Oh, yeah, he should leave. She opened her mouth but— “Me, too.” He nudged her inside and shut the door.
They stood there, staring at each other. She noticed his breathing sounded as labored at hers. Hands clenched, she glanced at the bed. His taste still lingered on her tongue, the feel of his body against hers echoed in her memory like a sweet dream, or a poem too good to be forgotten. She glanced up and caught him studying the bed.
Her breath caught; the memory of his kiss vibrated through her. She turned and stared at the wall and then she swung around. “I’m not having sex with you,”
He exhaled so hard she saw the hair resting against his brow flutter with his breath.
He nodded. “I can deal with that.” He looked around for a second and then back at her. “I didn’t mean for that to get out of hand.” He looked at the clock. “We’ll have an early dinner and—”
The send-off speech, she needed to do the speech. “I think you should leave.”
He stared at her, frowned, and then ran a hand through his hair. “And I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, I’m not so sure that your opinion—”
“Three!” He blurted out. “Count them. Three.” He held out three fingers. “Three people connected with Stan Humphrey have ended up dead. And now he’s after you. And… because of a kiss, because of a moment that got out of hand you want to put your life at risk. The kiss was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
Angry, confused, and still so weak, she tossed her purse on the chair, grabbed her suitcase, and went into the bathroom to take a shower. A cold shower.
She’d never needed a cold shower before. However, she’d never felt that achy emptiness between her legs like she had now. Never felt her entire body tingle with need, want and desire. Sex had always been something she thought was overrated. Most of the times she didn’t cross the finish line and she just faked it. She’d even considered the fact that something might be wrong with her. She’d gone for two years without getting naked with someone before Stan, and her experiences with him showed her she hadn’t really been missing anything.
So what was happening? Why now? Why Brit? Why did she feel as if she would die if he didn’t make love to her? Oh yeah, her mother had explained that their auras had the hots for each other.
Maybe Dr. Roberts was wrong. Maybe she was crazy!
Ten minutes later, she came out of the bathroom, showered, cooled off, and feeling a bit more in control. Her gaze lit on him, stretched out on her bed, shoes off, both pillows stacked behind his head. His eyes shut. He’d turned the television on and the remote rested on his flat stomach.
But she’d bet beneath the shirt he wasn’t flat. She’d bet he had those ripples caused by tight muscles. She’d imagined him without his shirt. Imagined her in bed beside him without his shirt. Her breath caught when she realized what she was doing. She was literally undressing the guy in her mind. Men did that. Not women. She jerked her gaze up to the ceiling.
Dang those auras!
Not that she believed, but she needed something to blame it on. And blaming auras was as good as anything.
Her gaze shifted back to him again. Asleep. Had it been so easy for him to forget the kiss? Her ego took a direct hit.
Suddenly his eye lids fluttered open, and they stared at each other. She felt his gaze whisper down her body. Saw the male appreciation warm his blue-green eyes. Okay, so her ego felt a little better, but her willpower took another nosedive.
She’d purposely gone through her suitcase and found the most unappealing thing she’d brought with her. Gray sweats and an extra large white T-shirt. She had also put her hair back up, because she hadn’t missed the way he’d watched it tumble down around her shoulders after he’d unclasped it.
“You like Italian?” he asked.
He looked part Italian. Yeah, she liked. But he meant food, and she should be thinking food. She’d never eaten lunch and the donut he brought her for breakfast had worn off hours ago.
He sat up, shifted his weight and pressed against the headboard. “There’s an Italian place right around the corner. I think they deliver.” He pointed to the phonebook he had open beside him. “Someone told me they have wonderful chicken marsala and veal parmesan. We could get one of each and share.”
She laced her fingers together. Just like that she remembered another reason this whole thing felt wrong. And by “whole thing” she meant the kiss, his being in a hotel room with her, her lusting after his body. “Seriously, don’t you have somewhere else that you should be?”
“Nope.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll order.”
“What about your girlfriend?” The question slipped out. A question she felt compelled to ask, but shouldn’t.
“She dumped me about eight weeks ago.” He pulled the phone book closer and punched in the number.