“Nothing,” she said quickly. Rather too quickly and his suspicion rose.
He started to question her, but his gaze fell back on her lips. And more than answers, he wanted to kiss her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. With both of them on their sides, the distance between them melted into a lover’s joining. Every part of her came against him. The kiss started light but deepened. Her tongue danced with his, slow, easy, just as their bodies had danced a few hours ago.
Shifting his hand to the front, he released the second button on her pajama top. The back of his hand brushed over flannel-covered breasts. He slipped his hand up under her shirt and touched sweet orbs of flesh. His erection, almost painfully pressed against the crotch of his jeans.
The feel of her budding nipple against his palm took him to the next level of hard. His hands started to shake with a sudden need to be there, to be on top of her, to have her nipple in his mouth, his hardness inside her.
He pressed his leg between her thighs. Rolling her on her back, he rested on top of her. He shifted his hips against hers, and she met him in the age-old rhythm. They moved together, rocking against each other, but the clothes got in their way.
Shifting slightly to the side, he reached down, found the elastic bottoms of her pants, and slipped his hand inside. Down past the flat abdomen, pass the soft patch of hair. No panties. His fingers found the wet lips of her sex and he heard her in inhale.
Somewhere in his mind, he remembered her telling him she wouldn’t have sex. “Tell me to stop and I will.” He lowered his mouth to the curve of her neck, certain she wouldn’t call an end to this trip to heaven. He found the flutter of her pulse on her neck with his tongue. “One word and I’ll stop. Or not.”
“I don’t want you to stop, but . . . we probably should.” She reached inside her pajama bottoms and wrapped her hand around his wrist. “I’m sorry.”
Ice water would have been more welcome. He pulled his fingers out from between her thighs and rolled completely off of her and stared at the ceiling—the tightening in his crotch bordered on pain. He hadn’t been this close and told no since he was a teen in the back seat of his mom’s old Chevy. And he hadn’t particularly liked those days either.
He dropped his hand on his chest and tried to find the right thing to say. But his next breath came scented with the sweet, musky scent of her sex and another wave of desire shot though him.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“No problem,” he managed to say, if you didn’t count the worse case of blue balls he’d ever had as a problem. His dick—hard as wood—slid across his zipper as he sat up and he almost moaned.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You could get in trouble at work by crossing a line with me.” Her heart raced while her body was one big ball of want.
She saw the desire bright in his eyes and she knew the look mirrored her own. Her body shook. She could still feel his touch between her legs, the ache, the desire to beg him to continue working his magic was so strong that she grabbed a couple of handfuls of blanket into her fist.
“That’s the reason you stopped this? Because I don’t see how what I do on my off time is anyone’s business. The chances of you having to testify aren’t even that great. That asshole pretty much sealed his fate when he left his cell phone at the crime scene.”
She bit down on her lip. His complete confidence in Stan’s guilt and her lack of it suddenly seemed like a bigger issue than his getting in trouble at work—especially when she remembered the conversation with Brit’s sister.
Without completely meaning to, the question just came out. “Do I remind you of your mom? Is that why you were so hard on me in the beginning?”
Even in the semi-darkness she could see his frown. See the emotion playing across his expression. “Why would…What does that have to do with this?”
“Just answer me.”
His frown deepened. “Big sis has been talking, hasn’t she?’
“Can you just answer me?”
When he hesitated, she recalled everything her mom had said in the dream, about her not being a doormat, but being more of a fixer. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “Maybe I have a little issue with choosing the wrong men, and Stan was wrong. But I’m not the type to let men abuse me.”
He inhaled and raked his hands over his face. She remembered where his hand had just been and she tightened her legs to fight the ache there.
“How did Stan find you?” he blurted out.
“We met at the coffee shop. I told you that.”
“No. How did Stan know you were staying at the hotel? Someone had to have told him.”
She felt the accusation all the way to her painted toenails. “You really think I told him?”