“You are mad,” she said on a rush.
“I’m not mad, I’m just—” I shook my head, looking beyond her once more, hoping the interior of the closet held the words I sought.
“We had plans, and I was thoughtless.”
“We did and you were.” I spoke plainly, bringing my hands to my hips.
“Do you have plans tonight?” Her voice was very small.
I looked to her. She’d inched closer.
“Yes.” I did have plans. Duane and I had promised to help Jethro and Sienna at the carriage house, assembling furniture and unpacking boxes.
Shelly winced and then grimaced. “Oh. Okay.” Her eyes fell as she stepped back and nodded repeatedly, struggling to swallow. To my astonishment she looked close to tears. “I am sorry. I will leave you alone. I am sorry.”
Acting on impulse, I caught her by the arms and pulled her close. I waited until she lifted her gaze to mine before speaking, also on impulse. “But tomorrow, my plans are with you and a hamburger at Daisy’s, assuming more of your family doesn’t show up.”
Instant relief spread over her features and she launched forward, kissing me. I released her arms and they came around my neck, holding me tightly as she planted her lips all over my face.
Damn this woman. Damn her for making me weak. Damn her for being able to wreck me.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I will make it up to you.”
The exuberance of her apology and fervor of her relief did wonders to settle my nettle. Also, the feel of her body beneath my hands helped a lot, too.
’Cause I’m a guy.
And a willing woman’s body is the universal antidote for being butt-hurt.
“You don’t need to make it up to me. Don’t forget I’m in a room again and we’ll call it even.”
“I definitely won’t. I’ll never forget. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, Shell.” I caught her mouth as it brushed over mine, turning and easing her against the door so I could kiss her good and proper.
But good and proper soon became naughty and dirty, and I grew dizzy with the feel of her.
One minute she was frantically covering my face with kisses, and the next she was arching against me, her fingers working to unzip my coveralls while I’d already half unzipped hers.
Essential madness, that’s what it was.
My hands moved around to her back, then lower, cupping and kneading her backside. Holy Moses, she had a great ass. Just . . . fucking great. I wanted to tell her how great but instead all I could manage was a growl.
I trusted the growl communicated my point.
Her hands slipped under my T-shirt, lifting and then yanking it over my head. She shuddered as her fingers danced along my stomach and ribs, her mouth ravenous beneath mine. Shelly bit my lip, sucking it into her mouth and I groaned, fire in my veins, needing to touch her everywhere.
Grabbing one of my wrists, she redirected my hand to her breast, pressing herself into my palm. Her breath hitched as I bent, giving her nipple the same treatment she’d given my lip, her nails digging into the back of my head, anchoring me to her.
“Oh God, Beau . . .”
Curious and turned on, I skimmed my fingers down her long torso, enjoying the silk of her skin, and into her panties—which I noted were also lacy. I parted her. Pulling down her bra straps, I recaptured the tip of her breast, swirling my tongue around the peak as I invaded her body with my finger.
I could have told her how wet she was, how hot and slick and intoxicating she felt. Instead, I growled again. And again, it was just as effective as words.
She gave me an answering moan, tilting her hips, her nails now scratching my back and sides.
“Please, Beau,” she panted. “Please. Please.”
I’ve always been a sucker for a woman asking nicely, and her plea was so sweet, ripe with raw vulnerability. I wanted to taste it, but I also wanted to tease, so I trailed wet kisses over her breast to her neck, sliding my lips and teeth along her jaw. I nipped at her bottom lip while I stroked her hotter.
Shelly chased my mouth. I lifted my chin, not giving her what she wanted while giving her exactly what she needed. I added a second finger to my invasion and the skill of my thumb. She whimpered, her head falling back, her nails scoring my skin where her fingers dug into my sides, her eyes at half-mast.
“Kiss me.” Shelly’s hands slid lower, into my boxers, moving with purpose. Her hands weren’t soft and small, tentative and teasing. They were strong and demanding. I was completely unprepared for how necessary her hands felt on my skin. How her touch, so uniquely her, drove me wild. A trail of searing heat, a rush and force of aching need both inebriated and sobered me, reminding me that we were still moving too fast, too soon.
Although I believed her when she’d apologized, I couldn’t count on her. Not yet. I wanted this woman. I wanted her body—desperately—but not until I had her trust and respect first.
“Shelly, honey—” I turned my hips, angling out of her reach.
“Let me touch you, please.” Her eyes were hazy and her breath was coming short. Even so, she rolled her pelvis, riding my fingers and looking so damn beautiful and sexy I had to hold my breath against the shards of painful longing threatening to eclipse my self-control.
“Not yet.” My voice emerged rough, gravelly as my gaze greedily memorized and stored every detail: the high flush on her cheeks, her parted lips, the rapid thrum of her pulse, the soft sway of her luscious breasts, the sheen of perspiration coating her perfect skin.
For a moment, all I could hear was the sound of her ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart between my ears. Her stare locked on mine, looking a little lost, a little surprised, and a lot mindless.
Good—I couldn’t help think, some of my own thirst quenched by her submission—I hope this distracts her for a good, long while. I hope it’s all she can think about. I hope thoughts of this, of me, haunt her.
“Beau,” she moaned, the sound helpless, panicked. “I think I’m coming. Fuck. I’m coming.”
She tensed, her fingers digging into my shoulders for purchase, her eyes rolling back and closing, her body stiff as a bow as wild sounds of surrender stole past her lush lips. Her loss of control was stunningly erotic, all thoughts of restraint fled my mind, leaving only a fierce need and determination to be buried inside her the next time.
And there was definitely going to be a next time.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe now.
Fire in my lungs, I pulled her away from the door and held her, surrounding her, wrapping her in a firm embrace. She was still shaking with aftershocks and snuggled close, and then even closer, like she wanted to fuse our bodies together, or merge them into one.
We stood like that for a long time, but not long enough for the want in me to temper.
Do I have a condom?
She’s probably on birth control.
Uh, disease?
. . . she seems clean.
Against the door? In the supply room?