“She likes you,” Clint told her once the door had closed behind Lindy.
“How can you tell?”
“She actually smiled. She’s usually so uptight that any facial expression, even a pleasant one, looks more like a grimace. But I think I actually spotted dimples.”
“We’re alumnae for the same sorority.”
“Lindy was in a sorority?”
Skye nodded. “Phi Kappa Geek.”
He grinned. “You weren’t a geek. You were a girlie girl.”
“Same thing when you’re always dolled up in a dress and all the other girls won’t give you a chance.”
“Why didn’t you make your own chance? You should have proved them wrong.”
“You like proving people wrong, don’t you?”
“I like showing people that what they see isn’t always what they get and that they shouldn’t be too quick to judge. People judged me my whole life. They’re still judging me.”
At his comment, her gaze went to the newspaper and the headline IS THE WOLF PACK TURNING INTO THE WUSS PACK?
“They think you’re afraid to get behind the wheel,” she said as her gaze skimmed the first few lines of the article. “They really think you’re afraid.”
“They’re trying to sell more newspapers.” He shook his head. “It’s not interesting that I’m ready to move on in my life, so they cook up something more juicy. It’s more exciting to imagine I’m facing some awful fear that I might crash again. That I’m scared if there’s a next time, when there’s a next time, I won’t be lucky enough to walk away with just a shoulder injury.”
Silence fell between them for several long moments. “So are you?” she finally said, suddenly eager to ease the tension in his expression. Despite her strictly sex vow.
The minute she voiced the question, something flashed in his eyes and she knew the answer even though he shook his head and gave her a when the devil starts scooping up ice cream look.
“Listen, Ruffles, I’m about as afraid of driving as you are of climbing onto the ropes and giving Stone Cold Steve Austin a piece of your mind.”
Her cheeks heated at the memory. “I may have gotten a little carried away last night.”
“A little?” He arched an eyebrow and grinned, obviously grateful to trade in the topic of his driving for another.
“Okay, maybe a lot but it was so much better than watching it on TV.”
“Um, yeah,” he said, his grin fading. “It’s all right.” “Just all right? Are you kidding? It’s a rush, like riding on the back of a motorcycle. I did that one time back in high school. I was a little afraid, but then I just climbed on and held tight.”
The confession seemed to stop him cold. “You’ve been on the back of a motorcycle?” Before she could respond, he added, “I have a motorcycle. A souped-up 1973 Harley with fins.”
“That’s nice.” As she continued, it was as if she were confessing to being a serial killer. “I don’t really know much about motorcycles.” Disappointment flared in his eyes and something tightened inside her. “I’ve seen a Harley before. I saw Easy Rider one night when I was up late working on one of my workshops.”
Hello? What does riding a motorcycle have to do with sex?
Very little, unless one wanted to get really creative and a little daring. Position wise, it was perfect for lots of touching. If she were holding him around the waist, it would just be a matter of sliding her hand down and... She forced the thought away and retrieved a SweetTart from her pocket. She puckered and his attention fixated on her lips for a long, heart-pounding moment.
“We really should get started,” she blurted before she drove them any further along the road to emotional involvement. “Tonight we’re covering the sex act itself.” She pulled out tonight’s lesson plan. “Here are the high points.” Handing him several sheets of paper stapled together, she fixed her attention on her own copy and tried to ignore the image of his tanned fingers against the stark white sheets that filled the corner of her eye.
He had exceptional hands, with strong fingers. They weren’t too soft or too callused, but just rough enough to make her skin tingle if he touched her back and trailed up and down just so...
She shifted, suddenly warm and anxious and hot.
Hot was good. Familiar. Even if it didn’t feel half as comforting as it usually did with him so close and the room so warm and her stomach growling for a lot more than a sour nickel-sized candy.
She drew in a deep breath, popped another candy and tried to ignore her craving.
“What’s with the DVDs?” he said, eyeing the stack. “My other sister is the owner and director of Sugar & Spice Sinema. They make how-to videos.” She picked up the top DVD. “They have a wonderful three-disc series that covers various sexual positions.” She stood, walked over to the DVD player and inserted the first disc.
“Sexual positions, huh?” “Fifty-two of them.” “You have to be kidding.”
“Actually, some theorize that there are fifty-four but Eve’s a die-hard believer in the fifty-two theory, so I merely verbalize the last two suggestions.”
A few seconds later, Skye sank down to the edge of the sofa, the remote control in her hand.
“Now,” she said, punching the Play button. The DVD started and an attractive couple filled the screen. “This is a visual demonstration of the first twelve in order of popularity. The first is the most common and is widely known as the missionary position. This is a very intimate position because the man and woman are facing one another, which thereby facilitates eye contact—you’re looking at me,” she said, catching his stare.
“You’re talking.”
“I’m narrating. There’s a big difference.”
“Okay.”
“This is the woman-on-top, a favorite of most men because men are very visual and this particular position provides an excellent view of a woman’s face and breasts. This is one of the few positions that promotes—you’re still looking at me.”
“You’re still talking.”
“You should be looking at the video.”
“They’re not talking. They’re grunting.”
“It’s sex. Grunting is allowed.”
“No argument here.” He shrugged, settled back into the cushioned sofa and glanced toward the big screen.
Her gaze hooked on his thighs outlined by a pair of tight, faded jeans that clung like a second skin. Denim cupped his crotch, revealing a substantial bulge that seemed even more substantial than when she’d stolen a glance at it a few minutes ago.
Not that she went around staring at men’s bulges.
It was a matter of priorities. Sex topped her list and so when she veered off the safety of the subject into no man’s emotional land, she could always treat herself to an eyeful to get back on track.
He was definitely an eyeful.
He lifted his legs, propped his feet on the coffee table and hooked his booted ankles, the motion drawing her attention back to his thighs. Muscles rippled, the denim pulling this way and that against the sinewy contents, and her mouth went dry.
“What are you thinking?” His deep, smooth voice slid into her ears and jarred her. She stiffened.
“What?”
“You’re staring at me now. What are you thinking?” “That you’ve got great legs for this next position.” She turned her attention back to her note cards and flipped to the next one. “Strong legs, and strength is definitely a plus to insure a nice, deep stroke when it comes to what is commonly referred to as doggie style. The position entails the woman facing away from the man with the man directly behind her. This position is also a visual turn-on for most men as it provides an up-close view of a woman’s backside—would you stop looking at me and watch the video?”
“You were looking at me a few seconds ago.”
“In relation to the video. Are you looking at me in relation to the video?”
“Actually, I was trying to picture you on the back of that motorcycle. What we
re you wearing?”
“This has nothing to do with the video.”
“I’m trying to get a visual,” he persisted, punching the Pause button on the DVD player. “Tell me.”
“It wasn’t a pretty picture. Sundresses do not adapt well to the open road.”
“You climbed on the back of a motorcycle wearing a dress?”
“I was always wearing dresses. I like dresses. I said I had fun. I didn’t say it was easy. Now.” She forced her attention back to the lesson plan. “After doggie there’s the spoon position—”
“What did you like the most about it?”
“We really should get to tonight’s lesson.”
“Tell me what you liked the most.”
She caught the determined glint in his gaze and shrugged. “The wind. I liked the feeling of the wind on my bare skin.” At his knowing look, she added, “and underneath my dress.” She eyed the television. “What I liked most was the way my heart pounded because I knew I wasn’t supposed to be doing something so wild and reckless.” She shook her head as the memory bubbled to the surface. A smile touched her lips. “My mother would have had a fit if she had known. Not about the actual riding, but about being on the back. ‘No daughter of mine would ride behind a man. She would be the one driving, the one in control.’” She glanced up. “I wasn’t driving, but still felt in control. There was all this power beneath me and it made me feel like I was sitting on top of the world. I know that sounds crazy,” she said, but one look into his eyes and she knew he didn’t think it was so crazy, after all.
“I know what you mean. It’s no different than driving a race car. There’s all this power at your fingertips and you feel larger than life. Invincible,” he said, voicing exactly what she was thinking. But even if he hadn’t said the words, she knew that he knew. In the dark depths of his eyes, she saw the proof. The understanding. The kinship. The connection.
The realization sent a burst of panic through her and Skye did what any other sexpert would do in her predicament—faced with an ultra-hot, marriage-minded he-man who not only turned her on physically, but punched her emotional buttons, as well.
She leaned forward and kissed him.
Chapter Thirteen
Kissing Clint MacAllister was even better than being on the back of a motorcycle.
Skye admitted that to herself as his tongue delved into her mouth and her nerves started to buzz.
Kissing Clint felt more wild, more reckless, more heart pounding than anything she’d ever done before, including the midnight ride with the baddest and most chauvinistic boy in Georgetown, Texas.
She wasn’t sure why. It certainly wasn’t because she’d initiated the contact. She’d kissed many men, and many men had kissed her back, and not once had it ever felt so... right.
Right as in the way his mouth fit hers, the way his tongue dipped and tangled and danced with hers. The way his hands came around to pull her closer and initiate a more intimate contact. The way he guided her over and onto his lap. The way her thighs settled on either side of his. The way her breasts crushed against his chest. The way her pelvis straddled his growing erection.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him with an intensity she often lectured about, but had rarely felt in her own relationships.
An intensity she’d never felt until that very first kiss last week.
The thought sent a thread of fear through her and she managed to pull back enough to catch her breath.
“I think we should get back to the lesson.”
“I thought this was part of the lesson.”
“No. I mean, yes. I just wanted . . .” To get off a very unsafe subject, onto something much safer.
Funny, but sitting astride him, staring into his eyes, she didn’t feel as if she were wandering in safe territory. With his musky, intoxicating scent filling her nostrils and his gaze, dark and glittering with desire, holdings hers, she might well have been teetering on the edge of a cliff. All the more reason for her to pull back and stop right now.
But at the same time, there was something exhilarating about what had just happened. Something that went beyond a mere distraction.
It’s called chemistry, girlfriend. Good, old-fashioned rip-off-your-clothes-because-I-have-to-have-you-now chemistry.
“You wanted to what?” he prodded, his gaze searching hers, his lips wet and parted and oh-so distracting.
“I, um, just wanted to make sure that you’d perfected the kissing before we moved on to the various positions. You,” she drew in a much needed breath, “can’t have a middle if there’s no beginning.”
“Did I ace the qualifier?”
Boy, did you ever.
“It was a little iffy.” She licked her lips and tasted him—a combination of raspberry iced tea and warm, hungry male—and her stomach grumbled for more. “I think I need another demonstration to really be sure.”
Before she could draw another much-needed breath, he grabbed the sides of her head and captured her lips in a hot, wet kiss that stole her breath and kicked up her heart another several beats. His tongue touched and mated with hers. Her arms curled around his neck and she tilted her head to give him better access.
The kiss went on for several fast, furious seconds before it slowed into something fierce and possessive and thorough. His hands closed over her shoulders before his arms slid around and he pulled her even closer. His palms slid down her back and underneath her skirt to cup her bare buttocks and heat fired between her legs. His fingers kneaded her flesh and his rock-hard groin rubbed her through the delicate satin of her panties, and instead of pulling away and giving him his well-deserved A+ for Kissing 101, she moaned and clutched him tighter.
She was only human, after all, and it had been over six months since a man had held her, touched her, stroked her. Her resolve melted like ice cream on a hot piece of apple pie and she forgot that her entire objective in kissing him in the first place had been to steer his attention away from their personal lives and back to the subject matter at hand—sexual positions.
Mission accomplished.
She’d never been a big fan of the lap dance—woman facing man, sitting on man’s lap—until this moment. With this man. Her nipples throbbed, pressing against the lace of her bra. Heat flooded between her legs and desire curled through her. She was on fire. Aching and burning and ringing... ringing?
“. . . can’t take your call right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you . . .” Beeeeeep.
“This is Donna Dee Lite, Mr. MacAllister. I know you don’t know me, but I’m here at The Leap Frog with Tuck Briggs and there’s a problem.”
“Shit!” Clint swore as he tore his mouth from hers. His chest heaved and his eyes were glazed with passion as he glanced at the answering machine. “I’m sorry. I have to get this.”
“I . . .” She nodded, scrambling off his lap as he got to his feet.
Her skirt was up around her waist and her blouse had ridden up under her breasts and she felt the same way she had the first time her grandmother had flicked on the porch light when she’d been kissing her prom date good night.
Nervous and uncertain and... nervous?
She killed the DVD and watched Clint cross the room and snatch up the phone. He swore a few more times as he listened to the person on the other end before hanging up and turning back to her.
“We’ll have to do this later. I’ve got to go.”
But Skye was way ahead of him. She’d already snatched up her briefcase and her educational materials and she was headed for the door.
“No problem. We’ll do positions next time. You did really good on number six.”
“Another test?”
“A demonstration.”
A distraction, she told herself despite the niggling truth that followed her out the front door and to her car.
She climbed behind the wheel, grabbed her roll of SweetTarts and fed several into her mouth to kill the craving deep inside her a
nd the taste of him that was still potent on her lips.
Her hands trembled as she grasped the steering wheel. She was nervous, uptight, stressed, despite the fact that they’d just had some really hot, mindless groping.
Because of it.
Because Cowboy MacAllister had not only punched her buttons physically, but he’d given her a charge emotionally, as well. Despite her best efforts, they were getting to know each other on a personal level.
“No,” she groaned, swallowing the mouthful of candy and reaching for more. She wouldn’t . . . She couldn’t . . .
Oh, no. She was starting to actually like him.
Her stomach grumbled at the thought and Skye did the only thing a desperate, hungry woman could do—she stopped at the first convenience store and bought herself a bag of Chips Ahoy.
“I didn’t know who else to call.” The six-foot buxom blonde wearing red short-shorts and a now dry T-shirt that said THESE PUPPIES WERE MADE FOR SUCKING led him through a maze of tables, to the back of the small Austin nightclub where Tuck Briggs had hosted a wet T-shirt contest. Tuck sat at a small round table, his back to the wall, his head hanging as if he’d dozed off while sitting upright.
Donna Dee Lite, as she’d introduced herself a few moments before, handed Clint a black leather wallet adorned with a silver concho and embroidered with the initials
T.B. “Your name and phone number were the only thing I found in his wallet. Except for a few condoms.”
“He doesn’t have a wife or a significant other.” Or any family to speak of. Clint had once heard him mention a mother in his childhood, but he’d rarely spoken of that part of his life. Clint had a feeling that Tuck had had his own hard time growing up. He saw it when he looked at the rebellious young man.
He saw himself.
“That’s right,” Tuck piped up as if Clint’s words had penetrated the alcoholic haze surrounding him. A mountain of beer mugs were stacked pyramid style on his table, but the minute his gaze locked with Clint’s, Clint couldn’t help but get the feeling that the empty mugs didn’t belong to Tuck.
Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice Page 13
