Smart and Sexy

by Jill Shalvis

  smooth, beautiful back, the way her sexy-as-hell panties had given her a world-class wedgie—

  “Noah?”

  Right. The bra. “Yeah,” he said, tearing his eyes off her ass and the wet satin invading it, his voice sounding rough even to his own ears as he unhooked her bra.

  Head bent, she let the material fall to the floor. Unable to help himself, his gaze slid back down. “Uh—”

  Her fingers hooked into the little wisp of material still at her hips.

  Again, he stopped breathing.

  With a tug and a little shimmy, she began to slide the panties off.

  And for just a moment, he actually died.

  Oblivious, she bent over, and he realized he hadn’t died, not yet anyway, because there was blood rushing through his veins, beating with a loud BOOM, BOOM, BOOM at the sight of her as she bent, naked, totally exposed—

  “Tired,” she murmured, and straightening, crawled up onto the mattress, nearly making his eyes pop right out of their sockets at the sight of her briefly on all fours as she moved to the center of the bed.

  She was the most gorgeous, sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

  Then she slipped beneath the covers, turned on her side away from him, and didn’t budge.

  “Yeah, uh…I’ll just crank the electric blanket.” He did that, then stood there like the fool he was, dripping all over the carpet, shivering, hard as a rock.

  And there was nothing, nothing in the world, worse than being in wet Levi’s when hard as a rock.

  She didn’t move.

  “I’m going to get out of my wet things,” he heard himself say.

  She didn’t care. Or at least she didn’t say a word.

  He unbuttoned his Levi’s and grimaced as he attempted to shuck himself out of the wet denim. He’d already kicked off his shoes, so he tried to get his drenched sock off, but that turned out not to be a good idea with his jeans stuck wet and clinging to his thighs, and he fell over.

  Lying on the floor, his ass hanging out, his legs caught in the damned wet jeans, he sighed. “I’m okay,” he said.

  To no one.

  When he managed to kick free of the jeans, he stood up. All he could see of Bailey was the top of her still damp hair, but he could have sworn he could hear her teeth chattering together.

  Damn.

  Well, that left him no choice, right? He had to warm her up, ward off the impending hypothermia. It was his civic duty. So he quickly dried off, lifted the edge of the comforter, and slid in. Oh, yeah, the sheets were warm, thanks to the electric blanket and the down comforter.

  So he had no idea why he breached the halfway point of the huge bed and bumped up against a nude, curvy, deliciously warm Bailey. Oops. He was on her side. Unfortunately, his arms slid around her before he could stop himself, and he pulled her back against his chest and thighs, snuggling in.

  “Mmm,” left her lips, but other than that, she said nothing.

  Nor did she move away. In fact, she didn’t move at all.

  Encouraged by that, he braced his head on one hand, the other skimming up her side as he looked down at the only thing visible outside the covers—her face.

  And had to laugh.

  She was asleep. As in dead-to-the-world, one-hundred-percent asleep, while he was hotter than he’d ever been, harder than he’d ever been….

  For a woman so terrorized, she didn’t even realize he was in bed with her. He didn’t care. He had no idea how sick that made him, but was fairly certain it made him pretty sick.

  In her sleep, she snuffled and made some sort of soft whimper. “Shh,” he murmured, hand on her belly, stroking lightly up and down. “I’ve got you.”

  Absorbing his words, she sighed, and wriggled just a little bit closer, which involved her sweet bare ass pressing into his hard-enough-to-hammer-steel self.

  She slept on.

  Yeah, that was good for the ego.

  She sighed again, wriggled again for more. Her hair tickled his nose, and instead of brushing it away, he buried his face in the rioted mess, then found himself pressing his mouth to her neck.

  God, she was sweet. Sweet and pale with exhaustion, and he just breathed her in. He needed to let her sleep. But unable to resist, he smoothed her damp hair off her face and let his mouth take itself on a little trail down her throat and back up to her ear, breathing her in as if she could be his air.

  Her hand squeezed his, and another little sigh escaped her, though she didn’t awaken. He thought of the night she’d had, of the days leading up to it that he still didn’t know enough about to suit him, and understood whatever happened had been brutal, and she’d been through hell. Empathy swamped him, and he rubbed his jaw down the side of her neck.

  “Mmmm,” she sighed again, with another enticing wriggle, and this time something else rose within him, something far more physically based.

  He danced his hand up and down her belly again. Up, up…

  To the very undersides of her breasts…

  Oh, God, she felt like heaven…and down, down low enough to run into the very tippy top of her strawberry blond mound…

  Again she rocked her bottom against him, making him twitch.

  A little whimpery sound that in fact could have been a half sob escaped her and tore at his gut. He pressed his lips to her jaw, her cheek, helpless to resist her smooth skin. Her breathing evened out at just the feel of him, and that, too, brought a deep surge of satisfaction. “I’ve got you,” he murmured.

  “Noah,” she murmured, not moving, not even to open her eyes.

  “Yeah. Me.” Feeling the weight of her exhaustion, he was glad she didn’t move. He kissed her jaw again, and then her throat, groaning when she took his wandering hand in both of hers and brought it up to her breasts.

  His fingers stroked her hard, pebbled nipples as his mouth worked its way to her shoulder, nudging the covers down as he went so he could lean over her and get a good look at what he exposed. He completely melted at the sight of her pale breasts and his own tanned fingers playing with her nipples. He let the blanket fall to her waist.

  And the truth hit him like a one-two punch—the more he saw of her, the more he wanted, and the stronger the need for her became.

  What was that?

  He had no idea, but neither did he have any resistance to fight it. It was a wrenching realization of how bad he had it for her. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  In answer, she burrowed back beneath the covers so that he could see nothing now but a cloud of strawberry blond waves, but…but she didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, she pushed it down, while he tried to keep from drooling all over her, tried to keep from begging her to continue letting him touch her because her nipples were the most gorgeous nipples he’d ever seen….

  But where she pushed his hand—past her quivering belly into the slippery satin and between her thighs—worked, too, and he spread his fingers to touch as much of her as he could.

  She let out a needy murmur, one that had his name on it, and nearly had him coming right then and there.

  “Noah,” she gasped, her body arching up when he moved his fingers, increasing the rhythm. God, he still couldn’t get enough of her.

  Still fully covered by the down comforter, she rolled to her back, giving him better access.

  Which he gladly took.

  Keeping his hand on her, he slid his face just beneath the blanket, pressing his mouth to her shoulder while working her into a feverish pitch with his fingers. Another soft sound came from her throat, and she blindly turned her face toward his. An invitation if ever he’d seen one, and he snatched it, lowering his mouth to hers.

  She made the sound again and opened her legs for him, and he didn’t hold back, running his tongue over her lower lip, drawing it into his mouth to suck, then caressing it again as he glided his fingers over her. Into her.

  She gasped his name, and he leaned over her, inhaling her scent, the soft feel of her beneath him, the way she panted in his ear, how h
er mouth clung to his as if maybe, just maybe, he was a lifeline for her, the way she’d become one for him.

  Her breathing had turned into a mantra of his name, and he increased the pressure of his fingers, making her cry out, a needy sound that went straight to his groin. The covers slipped to her shoulders. Her eyes were open, glossed over and disoriented with sleep and desire, and he didn’t care. He kissed her again.

  And again.

  Her face was flushed, her mouth wet from his, and that wasn’t the only place she was wet. She was drenched, for him, and the knowledge brought a surge of pleasure so sharp he couldn’t contain his groan, or keep his fingers from playing in her slippery heat.

  “Please,” she whimpered into his mouth, rocking her hips in tune with his fingers, urging him into her rhythm, but he already knew it. Somehow he already knew her, knew what made her hum with pleasure, knew how to turn her moans into gasping, hungry cries, how to drive her up higher and higher until her body went tight and then even tighter, until her hands came down over his as if to hold him there, as if afraid he’d pull away and stop.

  Not going to happen. He kept with her, increasing the pressure and pace as she wanted, tugging the blanket down so he could watch, which nearly had him losing it.

  Her eyes were closed, her mouth open as she gasped for air, her breasts full, her nipples peaked tight, her belly quivering as he moved his fingers on her, in her. Bending, he took one of her nipples in his mouth and sucked hard as he stroked her, and she went taut as a bow, and then burst.

  He couldn’t tear his eyes off her as she exploded for him, on him, all over him. It was the hottest, most erotic experience of his life, and he hadn’t even been touched.

  Her hips slowed, and she released his hand, probably as reality hit. She made a sound, one that held more than a touch of embarrassment, and without looking at him, rolled to her side, away from him.

  He didn’t react as fast as she, and was slow to take his hand off her, letting it glide up over her hip, over her ribs, barely skimming the very bottom curve of a breast before he withdrew. Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he covered her back up, covered them both back up, and by the time he snuggled in behind her, she was dead asleep again, lost in dreamland, hopefully where there were no bad guys with guns, and most likely where there was no him either.

  Nothing showed of her now except the very top of her head, but he could feel her every single silky inch, and his body hadn’t yet gotten the message that he wasn’t on the same path to release that she’d gotten.

  It didn’t matter.

  He wanted to turn her over to talk, to make her trust him with all her secrets. He also wanted to make her come all over him again, as many times as possible, and then he wanted to bury himself inside her so only the two of them existed, so that she could lose herself in him.

  And him in her.

  Her breathing slowed even more, evening out in the cadence of someone deeply asleep. Which she needed, he reminded himself. He took several deep breaths of his own and forced some grim thoughts to help ease his desire, such as the events that had transpired since leaving Burbank, leading up to him being here in this bed.

  It was sobering. But not sobering enough, not with her hair in his face, the taste of her still on his lips, the scent of her consuming him. Not with the hard-on he had raging even right this moment, nudging her in the ass on its own. With a sigh, he pressed his face into her hair, letting it drift down over him, and tried to follow her into dreamland.

  Bailey couldn’t catch her breath. She was running, running at top speed, or at least as top speed as her ridiculous high-heeled boots would let her in the snow, which had seeped into her clothes, down her boots, into her hair and face so that she was so frozen solid she couldn’t feel anything.

  She couldn’t see either; a fog had settled all around, and panic gripped her in its icy fist.

  “Bailey!” Kenny called from somewhere in the fog, somewhere close.

  He was in danger, terrible danger. She hadn’t gotten him far away enough, safe enough, and on top of that, she hadn’t been able to find the money.

  Now he was going to die, because of her, and no matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t catch up with him. “I’m here!” she cried. “I’m right here! Where are you?”

  “Bailey?”

  He sounded farther away this time, and her heart sped up as she ran harder, faster. She had to find him before they hurt him. She had to.

  Then she plowed into something—somebody.

  Reaching out, she dug her fingers into Kenny, sobbing in relief, only…only this person was bigger, taller than Kenny.

  Alan.

  “But you’re dead,” she said inanely, staring up into his face.

  He grabbed her arms, gave her a little shake, and smiled, and the teeth fell out of his mouth. Before she could so much as draw a breath to scream, the skin slid off his face, and his hair slid away, revealing a skeleton, a horrible, terrifying skeleton smiling at her. “And you’re next,” it said evilly.

  She found the breath to scream, but it came out as a sort of pathetic little whimper because he was going to kill her. At the knowledge, she began to fight, kicking, biting, scratching, and when he dropped her, she whirled and ran for her life.

  Any minute now she’d feel a bullet tearing into her flesh, which spurred her on while striking terror into her heart. Each breath was a sob for help, for mercy, for this nightmare to be over—

  “Bailey.”

  “Get away from me!”

  “Princess, it’s just me. I’ve got you.”

  Bullshit, he was going to get her. Confused, disoriented, she fought with every ounce of her being—

  “Bailey.”

  The voice was different, and penetrated through her panic. Not Kenny’s…

  “You’re okay,” Noah said. “It’s just me.”

  With a gasp, she opened her eyes, but it didn’t help. It was still pitch-black, and panicked, she sat straight up and bashed her forehead into his. Seeing stars, she fell backward to the pillow.

  “Jesus. Fuck. Christ.” He sounded as if maybe he was in considerable pain.

  Pain she’d caused.

  But at least he was alive, and then he proved it by pinning her down with his big, tough, gorgeous body.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  Chapter 12

  Talk to him…the one thing she didn’t want to do, not when still gasping from the dream and seeing stars from bashing her head on his, hard. She couldn’t see a hand in front of her face either, which didn’t help.

  She could feel, though. Feel Noah sprawled over the top of her. All of him was hard, and sharp, far too sharp for her to get anything past, though she wished she could, because she didn’t want to discuss this.

  Or anything.

  It was too much, it was all too much, and she shoved at him, needing to roll over and lick her wounds in private.

  “Bailey,” he murmured, holding on to her, stroking his hands down her body. “You’re okay.”

  Her naked body.

  Oh, God. She’d let him—at the memory, she squeaked in humiliation, which he must have taken as fear because he whispered, “It was just a dream.” He kept his hands on her, not letting her go, even though she wanted to roll into a tight ball. “Just a dream.”

  “But it wasn’t.” She hated that her eyes burned, that her throat was so tight her every breath hitched. “Kenny was there, he was hurt, and then Alan—”

  “A dream,” he said again firmly. “I promise.”