second—he wanted the sweet intoxication of a cuddle as much as she wanted to crash another helicopter—but her body wasn’t as quick on the uptake. Instead of fighting him off, flailing out a leg or arm to show she meant business, her traitorous limbs gave a feeble twitch that wouldn’t have stopped a kitten.
His oh-so-warm body drew closer, rays of heat and muscle working like a lever that pushed her flat against the floor. She could feel the rubbery flesh of Voodoo Scott protesting underneath her as the real Scott loomed over the top.
She was trapped by Scotts. In front and behind—both of them much too close to her sensitive parts for her not to feel a deep pang between her legs.
“I bet I could sleep a lot better if you were the one curled up against me,” he said. His hand—a heavy, delicious thing—dropped to her thigh. “I miss having you in my bed.”
Nope. Not falling for it. Not giving in. “That’s because you’re a man. Having a woman next to you is the ultimate convenience, like a fridge full of beer and sandwiches built into the headboard.”
His hand squeezed, and even though she had about twelve sweat-wicking layers on, he might as well have been touching bare flesh. Prickles of awareness shot through her, nerve endings on alert as the reassuring weight of him pressed closer. “No, Carrie. It’s you I miss.”
“You miss the pushy girlfriend mucking up all your stuff?”
His fingers slipped higher. “Yes.”
“You miss the constant bickering?”
“Yes.” He was nearing delicate territory now, and her legs—silly, useless fools—kept opening to let him in. It didn’t help that the farther up her thigh he moved, the more he bent over the top of her. They were almost horizontal together, bodies flush, the hard-packed strength of him pulsating its intent deep inside her belly. “Don’t you?”
She sighed. Of course she missed that part. In retrospect, continually arguing with Scott might not have been the fastest way into his life and into his heart, but she liked what it said about her. She liked what it said about them . They weren’t the cold absence of affection she’d grown up with. They weren’t a pair of tepid lovers testing the waters. They were messy and loud and pushy and real .
Just like her. They made mistakes and crashed in glorious bursts of fire, but they always emerged unscathed from the wreckage.
At least, they used to. Before the actual wreckage of her life had caught up with her and he’d decided it was too high of a price to pay.
“It’s not fair,” she said, and moaned as his hand slipped higher, grazing the sensitive throb at the apex of her thighs and heading deeper in. If she didn’t stop him soon, he was going to get his hands on his voodoo doppelgänger. “I started missing you before you finished shutting the door in my face.”
His fingers grazed plastic, so she did the only thing she could think of—pulled him in for a deep, tongue-twisting kiss. It probably wasn’t the best idea, kissing a man who was already on top of her and had his hand between her legs, but no one had ever accused her of overthinking things.
Nor was she likely to start now. The impression of his body stretched out over hers—crushing her, claiming her—was one she’d never been fully able to shake, and all the sensations came rushing back to her now with painful clarity.
They fit together, she and Scott. When she kissed him, he kissed back, his mouth relentless as his breath sought hers again and again. When she nipped the side of his mouth, half in playfulness, half in protest, he growled until she did it again. When she arched her back, feeling the outline of every hard part of him against her, his…plastic body popped.
“Oh, geez. Oh, shit. Oh, no.” She tried to roll out from underneath him, but he had her pinned to the floor. “Please tell me that wasn’t your head.”
“Neither the head nor the shaft, I’m afraid. In case you haven’t noticed,
His oh-so-warm body drew closer, rays of heat and muscle working like a lever that pushed her flat against the floor. She could feel the rubbery flesh of Voodoo Scott protesting underneath her as the real Scott loomed over the top.
She was trapped by Scotts. In front and behind—both of them much too close to her sensitive parts for her not to feel a deep pang between her legs.
“I bet I could sleep a lot better if you were the one curled up against me,” he said. His hand—a heavy, delicious thing—dropped to her thigh. “I miss having you in my bed.”
Nope. Not falling for it. Not giving in. “That’s because you’re a man. Having a woman next to you is the ultimate convenience, like a fridge full of beer and sandwiches built into the headboard.”
His hand squeezed, and even though she had about twelve sweat-wicking layers on, he might as well have been touching bare flesh. Prickles of awareness shot through her, nerve endings on alert as the reassuring weight of him pressed closer. “No, Carrie. It’s you I miss.”
“You miss the pushy girlfriend mucking up all your stuff?”
His fingers slipped higher. “Yes.”
“You miss the constant bickering?”
“Yes.” He was nearing delicate territory now, and her legs—silly, useless fools—kept opening to let him in. It didn’t help that the farther up her thigh he moved, the more he bent over the top of her. They were almost horizontal together, bodies flush, the hard-packed strength of him pulsating its intent deep inside her belly. “Don’t you?”
She sighed. Of course she missed that part. In retrospect, continually arguing with Scott might not have been the fastest way into his life and into his heart, but she liked what it said about her. She liked what it said about them . They weren’t the cold absence of affection she’d grown up with. They weren’t a pair of tepid lovers testing the waters. They were messy and loud and pushy and real .
Just like her. They made mistakes and crashed in glorious bursts of fire, but they always emerged unscathed from the wreckage.
At least, they used to. Before the actual wreckage of her life had caught up with her and he’d decided it was too high of a price to pay.
“It’s not fair,” she said, and moaned as his hand slipped higher, grazing the sensitive throb at the apex of her thighs and heading deeper in. If she didn’t stop him soon, he was going to get his hands on his voodoo doppelgänger. “I started missing you before you finished shutting the door in my face.”
His fingers grazed plastic, so she did the only thing she could think of—pulled him in for a deep, tongue-twisting kiss. It probably wasn’t the best idea, kissing a man who was already on top of her and had his hand between her legs, but no one had ever accused her of overthinking things.
Nor was she likely to start now. The impression of his body stretched out over hers—crushing her, claiming her—was one she’d never been fully able to shake, and all the sensations came rushing back to her now with painful clarity.
They fit together, she and Scott. When she kissed him, he kissed back, his mouth relentless as his breath sought hers again and again. When she nipped the side of his mouth, half in playfulness, half in protest, he growled until she did it again. When she arched her back, feeling the outline of every hard part of him against her, his…plastic body popped.
“Oh, geez. Oh, shit. Oh, no.” She tried to roll out from underneath him, but he had her pinned to the floor. “Please tell me that wasn’t your head.”
“Neither the head nor the shaft, I’m afraid. In case you haven’t noticed,
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