Dirty Sexy Knitting by Christie Ridgway

of the tightening, maddening coil of pleasure. For that, she knew, she needed more nakedness, and Gabe naked, and a bed, and more of him—her darkest, deepest fantasy—against her.
    “ Please , Gabe.”
    His mouth still busy at her breast, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. Her lungs ceased to function. Time stopped. It was exciting, erotic beyond any of her late-night imagin ings, to look into Gabe’s dark eyes, the expression in them burning, as his mouth continued to suck at her breast, his cheeks hollowing.
    Her womb clenched, releasing more slick heat. “Gabe,” she mouthed, her voice robbed of sound as her body throbbed with want. “Please.”
    She saw the satisfaction in his eyes. Without taking his gaze from her face, he slid his palm away from her free nipple and slid it down her body. He found the juncture of her thighs, still tightly pressed together. The heel of his hand ground firmly against the soft pad of flesh at her mound.
    Moaning, she felt her thighs part. It was what he wanted because he made a hum of approval and then slid his hard fingers into the narrow gap. He had to feel her heat, the dampness, but she couldn’t do anything but tilt her hips to meet his firm, knowing touch.
    Through the thin cotton of her pants and the light fabric of her panties, he found the exact right place to rock and roll. He did both, taking her closer . . . and closer . . . And when his teeth bit down on her nipple, she reacted like a band groupie to her favorite singer’s signature song . . .
    She screamed.
    He rode with her through the waves of orgasm. His mouth and his hand easing up as the ripples receded. When the last shudder died away, he lifted his head and took a breath. Then he placed a quick kiss on the tip of each nipple, her chin, her nose, then back to her mouth.
    No tongue.
    No heat.
    No intent to move on to the next act.
    “Gabe, what? . . .” she said, even as he was pulling up her bra and her top in the same efficient move he’d used to take them down. Her face felt hot with embarrassment. She wasn’t practiced at this after-the-scream thing, but she couldn’t just take from him, could she? “What about you?”
    “That was yours, honey. Just for you.”
    Her face burned hotter. Had she been too loud? Had she done something else to turn him off?
    “Gabe . . .” she said, agonized. “Did I do something wrong?”
    He buttoned her up almost to her chin. “No. It was me that did wrong the other night. To you.”
    “What?”
    “I was evening the score, Froot Loop. Us together in bed like we were—bad idea. But it happened, and I feel like a heel that I left you high and dry then.”
    Us together in bed like we were . . .
    The words sank in. He’d said something similar earlier, and now she finally understood what he was talking about. He thought they’d had sex the other night after she’d brought him home from the Beach Shack! He’d woken in her bed and assumed . . .
    Which meant he didn’t remember a thing.
    Which explained why he’d been Mr. Nice Neighbor the last couple of days, handing out kisses and concern and now . . . climaxes. He’d felt guilty for sleeping with her.
    The warmth on her face and kindling in her belly had nothing to do with sex or shame now. She was pissed. He thought she thought so little of herself that she’d let some drunken barfly talk her between the sheets.
    And he hadn’t questioned his assumption—or questioned her. Apparently he figured that them naked-to-naked could be just that forgettable.
    Oh, she was going to make it very clear that—
    But wait. His mistake had gotten him out of his bat cave. It had got him eating and talking and taking an interest in something other than his ghosts and his grief.
    That was good. And despite her anger there was still enough Nightingale left in her when it came to Gabe that she wasn’t ready to see that end.
    So she wouldn’t correct his wrong impression that they’d slept together. Her gaze slid over to him