by Heidi Rice
He stepped into her personal space. All six foot three of him. “Since when does taking a guy’s picture involve stroking his ass?”
Her temper erupted like the Old Faithful geyser at Yellowstone.
“Back off, you son of a bitch.” Planting her hands on his chest she shoved him as hard as she could.
He barely budged.
“I’m the son of a bitch? How do you figure that?” he said, his temper exploding with hers. “One day you’re kissing me and the next you’re making out with my kid brother!”
“Making out with …” she sputtered. She actually sputtered. How did this man have the power to turn her on and make her want to kill him at the same time? “I wasn’t making out with him.”
“Then why were you touching his ass?”
“I did not touch his ass.” Or she was pretty sure she hadn’t. “I was getting the pose right. And anyway, you stupid lummox…” She heaved in a ragged breath, and slammed her fists onto her hips, her outrage flaring like a dragon on steroids. “Why would I touch his ass when it’s your ass I want?”
“You… What?” He looked momentarily taken aback.
“That’s right, Mr. Mixed Messages. I kissed you last night. And you kissed me back. Then you freaked out. So you don’t get to act all irrationally jealous now about me doing my job, when it was you who didn’t want me, not the other way around.”
“You think I don’t want you?” The outrage and indignation were back. “Are you nuts? I’ve been hard as a rock for days.”
“Then why didn’t you do something about it yesterday?” she shouted back.
The temper in his eyes turned into something dark and much more potent. “Ah, to hell with it.”
Taking her face in large callused palms, he brought his mouth down on hers. The kiss was bruising, punishing in its intensity, with all the heat of yesterday and so much more. His tongue licked across the seam of her mouth, demanding entry.
She pressed her palms against the rigid muscles of his abs, and surrendered to the need flowing through her like hot lava. Her tongue dueled and danced with his, exploring the recesses of his mouth, gathering that delicious taste, her fury with him feeding her hunger.
She shoved her fingers into his hair, gripping the short strands. He boosted her into his arms and she locked her legs around his waist, the heat settling in her sex as she writhed against the thick ridge in his jeans.
He tore his mouth from hers, his blue eyes dark with torment and croaked, “Bedroom?”
She nodded, then carried on kissing him, her lips roaming over his face, the stubble on his chin, as his wide hands palmed her ass, caressing, kneading. He charged into the house, marched up the stairs then shot down the corridor with her in his arms.
She had a vague thought that Lyle would hear them, but couldn’t seem to hold the thought in her brain, because all she could focus on was finally unleashing the firestorm in her blood.
They reached the door at the end of the hall and he crashed into his room, then dumped her on his bed.
“Take your clothes off,” he demanded, as he ripped off his shirt. Buttons popped across the floor.
Normally she would have objected to the dictatorial tone, but she was way too far-gone to give him a lecture on feminism and the rights of women.
She tugged her T-shirt over her head, felt the slight chill in the air pinch her already swollen nipples into hard peaks. She kicked off her boots, then lay down to unbutton her jeans and wiggle them down her hips, all the time keeping her gaze locked on him.
He looked magnificent as he wrestled off his boots, bouncing on one foot then the other, then ripped open his fly and pushed down his pants.
The long thick erection bounced up to his belly button—and the firestorm blazed out of control.
She blinked as moisture flooded between her thighs.
Good Lord, the man was seriously hung.
Her breath clogged her lungs. “My my, Deputy Hard-Ass, I’m impressed,” she said, the desire to provoke him never far from the surface.
“Good,” he muttered, as he kicked off his jeans. He yanked open a drawer on the dresser, rummaged around like a madman, and produced a packet of condoms.
“I’ve always been a size-doesn’t-matter girl,” she said, feeling light-headed, the need to gain the upper hand paramount. “But I am currently seriously reconsidering my opinion.” Had she ever seen anything more erotic in her entire life, than the sight of that beautiful penis, so gloriously hard just for her?
She reached out and touched her finger to the drop of moisture at the tip, mesmerized when the thick erection jerked in her hand.
“Stop mocking me, you little witch,” he said, surprising her with the flash of humor, as he climbed on the bed. “And lose the underwear.”
“Then stop ordering me about,” she said, but couldn’t contain the spike of excitement as she unclipped her bra and flung it away, then shimmied out of her panties. She would have to tease him later, once she wasn’t about to be burned alive.
“And stop talking,” he said, his voice as raw and needy as the throbbing center of her sex.
She debated arguing, but couldn’t speak round the huge ball of lust in her throat as she watched him roll a condom on that magnificent erection.
Big hands grasped her round the waist, then skimmed her body, to cup the heavy weight of her breasts.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with need, his expression bold and unapologetic.
The approval in his gaze shocked her on some visceral level. Had anyone ever looked at her with such longing before? Such desperation?
Grasping his head, she dragged it up, determined to ignore the melting sensation in her chest. This was just a booty call. A hot, frantic booty call with a man she’d wanted since the moment she’d laid eyes on him. It didn’t mean anything.
“Shut up and do me, Deputy Hard-Ass,” she whispered against those wide, sensual lips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.
He cupped her yearning sex, and found the swollen nub with his thumb.
She bucked off the bed, sobbed, far too close to the edge already.
“Please…” she begged. “I want you inside me.” This was just animal magnetism. The basic elemental desire to find pleasure in raw sweaty sex. It couldn’t ever be more than that. She didn’t want it to be more.
But instead of doing what she asked, he circled and probed with that devious thumb, then eased one long blunt finger into the slick folds.
“You’re so small,” he said, the concern in his voice torturing her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she said, getting frantic now.
She didn’t want him to be gentle, tender. That wasn’t what this was about.
She grasped his bottom, angled her hips, sinking into the quilt, drawing her legs up to cradle that glorious erection. “Believe me I do not need any more foreplay,” she said.
He lifted his head, and those bold blues eyes focused on her. And for a moment she thought he could see right through the bad girl act, to the fragile child that had once lurked beneath.
But then he notched the head of his penis against her entrance and thrust hard.
She arched, impaled on the massive erection, staggered by the feeling of fullness. Sweat slicked her skin—the exquisite edge of pain overwhelmed by the rolling tide of pleasure.
She grasped his broad, muscular shoulders, egging him on as he began to move, rocking out, thrusting back, massaging her G-spot with the ridged underside of his penis.
Pleasure whipped at her as he established a fast, punishing rhythm. His harsh grunts matched her sobs, as the wave swelled to impossible proportions, driving her upward and onward toward that terrifying edge.
She bowed back, scoring the skin of his back with her fingernails as she struggled to draw breath, to hold on. But then he bent his head down, and captured one pouting nipple with his teeth. The sharp nip sent heat cascading to her co
re and the pulsing ache crested at last.
Her cry and his shout cut through the darkness as she crashed over, shattering into a million glittering pieces and falling back to earth.
*
Holy shit.
Logan’s arms shook as she milked him through the final throes of his climax.
He’d never come like that before. Never made love like that before. He felt as if he’d been in a war. A war his battered body might never recover from.
He struggled to brace his elbows, so he didn’t collapse on top of her.
He felt shell-shocked. The only consolation was she looked shell-shocked too, her hands falling off his shoulders, her breathing ragged and uneven.
Eventually, after what felt like several eternities, he managed to gather enough strength to lift himself off her.
He heard her moan as he eased out of her.
Guilt and shame assaulted him as he flopped onto his back beside her. He stared at the shadows cast on the ceiling by the dying light and waited for his heartbeat to stop kicking his ribs like a wild mustang.
He should say something. Apologize for plowing into her like a Mack Truck. And that was just for starters.
He winced as he recalled what he’d said to her on the back porch.
Yeah, he should apologize for that, too.
What the hell had gotten into him? He’d never ever spoken to a woman like that before in his entire life. And she hadn’t deserved it. She’d accused him of being irrationally jealous and she’d been right.
She shifted in the bed beside him and sat up. He stared at her slender back as she bent to pick up her bra. She pulled it on, reached behind her to clip the hook.
“What are you doing?” he managed, even though it was pretty obvious.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Getting dressed. I should probably check on Lyle, make sure I didn’t give him frostbite.”
He didn’t want to think about his kid brother—and he didn’t want her thinking about him either.
“Lyle will be fine; he’s tougher than he looks,” he said, propping himself on an elbow. “And it’s not that cold.”
The desire to touch her was unstoppable but when he laid a palm on her hip she stood up, to slip on her panties, and his fingers dropped away.
“Do you think he heard us?” she said. She didn’t look embarrassed, just curious. He took that as a good sign.
“He’s not deaf. And we weren’t exactly quiet.”
“No, I suppose not.” She tugged the T-shirt over her head, wriggled into her jeans.
“Is that a problem?” he asked, trying to quell the renewed spike of jealousy.
He needed to get a grip. Jealousy was a piss-poor emotion. And he wasn’t in competition with Lyle—that was all in his head. She’d told him as much and he believed her.
But something about this woman messed with his ability to be rational.
She shrugged. “Not particularly. I just don’t want him to feel uncomfortable.”
He huffed out a laugh that sounded a little strained. “Are you kidding? Have you met my kid brother? Making Lyle uncomfortable is next to impossible. The guy’s so laid-back he’s practically horizontal.”
The thought made him feel like even more of a dick. Lyle had been as chilled as Charlotte during the photo shoot. There had been nothing between them. The way she’d been touching Lyle had been impersonal, professional. Plus she’d never once looked at Lyle the way she looked at him. With all that heat and hunger in her eyes.
So what the heck had gotten him so worked up?
She sat down to stamp on her boots.
Climbing off the bed, he pulled on his shorts. Ready to step into her path as she headed for the door.
“Wait, Charlotte.”
She stepped back and raised a hand. “Don’t say it. Lyle and I are friends, and that’s not going to change just because you and I got jiggy together.” He saw the flash of wariness in her eyes, making him feel like even more of a dick. “So if you’re going to go all Othello on me again, I don’t want to hear it.”
He rested his hands on her shoulders and she stiffened. The shame blossomed like a mushroom cloud.
“That’s not it. I behaved like a jerk. I totally over-reacted and I apologize. I could blame it on extreme sexual frustration, but that would just make me even more of a jerk.”
Her eyes widened as he spoke—making him wonder if she was used to being accused of stuff she hadn’t done.
“Okay, good,” she said.
But when she tried to sidestep him, he stepped with her.
“What?” she said.
“Are you okay?” he asked gently.
“Of course.” Her chin took on the stubborn slant that had antagonized him up till now, but suddenly seemed impossibly brave and honest. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He cupped her cheek, the delicate skin soft beneath his palm. “I was kind of rough. Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?”
She placed her hand over his and pulled his fingers away from her face. The smile was quick and a bit wicked, spiking the familiar pulse of arousal in his crotch. “Apparently, I like rough.”
He took her wrist in his. The rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb contradicted the flirtatious smile and made him wonder why she was so determined not to admit the truth—that she’d been as blindsided by the strength and intensity of their lovemaking as he had.
She glanced down at his hold on her. “I have to go. I have stuff to do.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said as he tugged her toward him, unable to hide his own smile. Seeing Charlotte Foster flustered was a new experience. And one he kind of liked.
She flattened a palm against his chest, as he sunk his fingers into the silky strands of her hair.
“Important stuff,” she said, as he lowered his lips to hers and then nuzzled the pulse point in her neck, where her scent gathered.
Damn, but she smelled delicious.
“I’ll bet,” he murmured, as he captured her lips.
She sunk into the kiss with him, sucking on his tongue, uninhibited about her desires. How could he have accused her of touching up his brother, when she was so damn honest and open about what she wanted? There was nothing coy about this woman. And that was the biggest turn-on of all.
She tore her mouth away from his, and braced her palms against his chest. “I’m serious, Deputy Tate. I do not have time for another round tonight.”
“How about tomorrow night?”
Her lips quirked, the sultry grin making the heat pound harder in his crotch. “Are you saying you want an encore?”
“Damn straight I do, if you do?” Why not admit it, he was totally captivated by her. The smart mouth and tough-girl exterior, the independent streak she wore like a shield, and her ability to drive him wild without even trying.
That probably wasn’t a good thing—if they were talking about a long-term relationship—but they weren’t. What they were talking about was the chance to indulge in a few more exceptional booty calls while she was here.
And boy did he need them.
Because she was right, and Lyle was right too, somehow or other in the last couple years, maybe even longer than that, he’d turned into a mean, moody bastard.
Deputy Hard-Ass.
He needed to lighten up, learn to live again. One thing was for sure, his sex life had been stuck in the most enormous rut for as long as he could remember. He was always so cautious with women. Not wanting them to get the wrong idea. And he was always so careful to keep his more basic needs and desires in check. But with Charlotte Foster that wouldn’t be necessary because she was as naughty and nasty as he was.
She was going to be here for two or three weeks. A month at the most. Then she would be heading out of town for her next assignment. She wasn’t looking for anything serious and neither was he. But she was easily the most exciting, intriguing woman he’d ever met. And she wanted him. And he sure as hell wanted her. If he was looking for a spectacular booty c
all to blast him the hell out of his rut, he couldn’t think of one with more potential.
What could possibly go wrong?
“What d’you say, Charlotte?”
*
Busted.
Charlie stared at the man in front of her. And realized she had underestimated him. A lot. He wasn’t anywhere near as uptight or judgmental as she’d assumed. She’d been keen to get away from him as soon as possible after that mind-blowing sex-athon, because she was sure she knew what was coming.
If you enjoyed sex, if you instigated sex, if you matched men demand for demand and allowed them to use you the way you wanted to use them, it was only a matter of time before they called you out for it.
It was that old sexist double standard. She’d always been unafraid to own her sexual appetites, which had always put her at loggerheads with men like Logan Tate.
Old-fashioned, traditional, domineering, alpha guys with tons of testosterone and not a lot of sensitivity who thought women should be screwed and not heard.
Or at least that’s the kind of guy she’d assumed Logan Tate would be.
But the buff body, taciturn personality, and take-charge attitude had fooled her.
Because Logan wasn’t that kind of guy.
Instead of judging her, Logan had judged himself. And instead of trying to deny the intensity of what had happened between them, he’d not only owned it, he’d announced he wanted more of the same.
Which would have been great—because so did she—except it left her with another dilemma.
She would happily sleep with Logan again—because frankly what was not to like about having a wild inappropriate fling with a guy who had the kind of moves in bed he did, who had more heft than Superman, who could turn her on simply by leveling that brooding blue stare in her direction and who was amenable to the idea too? But how exactly did she square that with the tender spot in the center of her chest that had opened up and swallowed her stomach whole when he had asked her if she was okay, if he’d hurt her?
She didn’t need nurturing or protecting, hadn’t needed that since she was a little girl and her parents had shown in deeds as well as words that needing someone, relying on someone, was a fool’s game.
