Take Me On

Still, in the throes of mindless passion, he was careful about where his hands ventured. Never to her back. Only her hips and her br**sts and shoulders. Down her arms. She lowered herself to him and reached for his hands, twining her fingers with his and pinning him down. A fine sheen of sweat slicked her skin, and she tasted the salt of his when she kissed his jaw.

Close, she was so close… Angling her hips so that her clit could grind into him, she tossed her head back and gasped as two separate sensations fused and pitched her higher. Before she could gasp his name, that riptide swept her out. Every muscle locked down on him, and the intensity of her climax nearly rent her in two. Her body carried on an erratic rhythm of its own volition, demanding more of this from him and getting it, milking it, taking all he had to give.

Whatever words tumbled from her mouth, she wouldn’t remember them later, but she would remember his face as he joined her. The way his brow furrowed, the way his mouth opened—it was all shown to her through a dim shaft of light from the single window, and he was gorgeous.

Silent, though. As he shook and pulled her closer, he scarcely uttered a sound. She only knew he came from the throb of him deep inside, the pleasure drawn on his shadowed face.

Damn, what she wouldn’t give to make this man roar. But there wouldn’t be any more opportunities for that, would there? He certainly wouldn’t be up for it. She might, though. Oh, holy hell, after that? He might have to beat her away with a stick.

As passion’s grip released them both, she eased down over his body and struggled to catch her breath. His arms—still minding her sensitive skin—wound around her shoulders and the small of her back. At least he gave her that much. She snuggled her face into the crook between his neck and shoulder and breathed deeply, feeling her heart rate slow. His still beat strong against her.

He smelled so good. Hell, they smelled good together…his spice and her musk and their sex blending into an intoxicating perfume. No wonder she’d felt so drunk, so drugged.

She chuckled lazily at the sappy, romantic direction her thoughts were taking. God knew she was aware of what this was all about. She’d needed to get laid; she’d needed to be desired. He’d seemed like a good candidate—and damn, had he ever lived up to her expectations.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, and despite the grounding nature of her feelings now, she could appreciate the huskiness of his voice and how satiated he sounded. She’d done that for him, and it was a kick.

“Just thinking about how we smell.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “How we smell? Are you trying to tell me something?”

“No, idiot. You smell magnificent. And so do I, if I do say so myself. But together we smell…amazing.” Exasperated, she gave him a little pinch. “Don’t you agree?”

He sniffed the air, then sniffed at her while she laughed. “You smell like…hmm…I don’t know. You’d smell better, though, if you smelled like bacon.”

“What?”

“Come on, now. Bacon is the greatest smell in the world.”

When her stomach took that moment to protest its emptiness, she was kind of inclined to agree with him. But still. Really? “I’m going to take that as a personal affront. That I don’t smell as good as bacon.”

“You shouldn’t feel that way. It’s just, you know…fact. It’s not like you can help it.”

“Are we really talking about this?”

“Well, you brought it up.”

“I didn’t bring up bacon.” This had to be the dorkiest conversation she’d ever been a party to, and that was saying a lot. “Tell you what. If you say you have some on hand, and one of us can fry it up, I’ll forgive you for letting me know I’m inadequate according to your olfactory system.”

He touched her hair, tracing one long strand with the tip of his finger. “Sure. We can do that. How about a BLT?”

“Sounds heavenly.”

As Ian crawled from the bed, Gabby propped her head up and allowed herself to thoroughly appreciate the view. While they’d been tangled up in each other, he’d never completely lost his jeans, but he’d lost them enough that she had a full view of his ass. What she wouldn’t give for her back to be healed so maybe he could throw her down and really put those tight, wonderful muscles to work on her. Even now she wanted to sink her fingernails into his firm curves, and fantasized about doing so while he bent her knees to her ears and pounded into her.

Whew, damn. If she wasn’t careful, she’d get herself all worked up again and burn even more calories she was desperate to replace.

Hell, she was already worked up. If he wanted to go again, she’d be all for it. But he disappeared into the bathroom, and a second later, light flooded in from the doorway. With a contented sigh, Gabby collapsed back on the bed and stared at the ceiling…and wondered what Mark was doing right now.

If that wasn’t a freaking unwelcome intrusion. It wasn’t that she cared. Or, more accurately, it wasn’t that she wanted to care—because, damn him, she did. Every now and then he trespassed on her thoughts when he should be the furthest thing from her mind. Like after she’d just had great sex with someone who wasn’t him. Her first great sex since he dumped her. Her only sex.

So yeah, she still thought about him, and she dreaded—dear God, she dreaded—going back to Dallas, where he might be inclined to seek her out.

Not that she really thought he would. But he’d made a comment about their timing being wrong, about how someday maybe it would be right. He could go on waiting for that moment, she’d told him, because she damn sure wasn’t. To be so brilliant, he’d proven himself a fool to think she’d go for that. “Oh, sure, Mark, I’ll just hang around and wait for ‘someday’ and the next wedding you decide to skip out on. Sounds like a plan.”

And why was she dwelling on it? She had a hot man who’d just f**ked her senseless, emerging from the bathroom at this very moment in his low-slung ripped jeans, giving her an electric smile before heading toward what she assumed was the kitchen. She’d be the fool, she decided, if she didn’t get up and follow that. So she put on his T-shirt and did.

Chapter Six

Ian straightened from retrieving the bacon, lettuce and tomato from the fridge as Gabby sauntered in, wearing his shirt. If she’d looked incredible earlier in the parlor and later in the bar—and dear God, naked in his arms—she looked insanely gorgeous right now, her long hair tousled up on one side and her dewy olive skin glowing against the contrast of the shirt. It fell just above mid-thigh on her, and the thought that she might still be bare and wet from their sex underneath it set off all kinds of lustful thoughts in his head. He set the stuff on the counter and wiped his palms on his jeans, mind going blank. What the hell was he doing? Bacon. Right.

“I’ll cook if you chop,” she said, her voice an octave lower than he remembered it.

Full lips even fuller than he remembered them. All from his kisses. He directed her to the skillet and utensils and tried to get his f**king thoughts together.

He’d been an idiot to take her up on her bet, but he’d have been a bigger idiot not to. At least, it had been easy to look at it that way at the time. Now, he had to think about going to work tomorrow and looking his boss in the eye. Shit.