long moment watching her in the semi-darkness.
Jill had practiced a zippy little speech that evaporated from her mind the second she stared at his bare chest. Just the right amount of chest hair arrowed down to the top of his jeans. Her pulse clamored in her head.
Forcing her gaze away from him, she took in what she could of his den. A comfortable couch, a southwestern throw, pillows, an overstuffed chair, a table topped with books and a terra-cotta lamp and an entertainment center.
CD player.
The sight jogged her memory, but her courage sagged. She wanted to say, help! "Are you sure this isn't too late?" she asked in a near whisper.
He shook his head.
"I brought some wine," she said, not quite meeting his gaze. "And a CD. I thought you maybe could give me another lesson in two-stepping." She took a breath. "But you're probably too tired for that, so—"
"I'm not," he said, and reached for the bag she held. He took her hand, too, as if he knew she might back out, and led her to a small kitchen.
"You saw Sam tonight," he said, as he uncorked the wine.
Sam. An easier subject. She took a breath. "Yes. He was doing wonderfully. I think he had more energy than I did," she said.
Tyler filled one wineglass. "His prognosis is excellent. You should feel good. You helped him through a terrible time."
"He kinda helped me, too."
He nodded and offered her a sip.
She took two. "You aren't going to have any?"
"We can share," he said and took the bottle and CD with him as he led her back to the den. "Take off your shoes," he said, and with a slow wicked smile added, "and anything else you might like to ditch."
She stepped out of her shoes, shoved them out of the way and took another gulp of wine. He programmed the CD player, and the music flowed through the room. He took her hand and stood in dance position as if he didn't know she was here to make love with him. His shoulder was warm and muscular beneath her palm, and that single button at the top of his jeans was still unfastened. She bit her lip.
"The secret is the slide. When I slide forward, you slide backward. Slide, slide," he said, beginning the dance. "That's right."
Looking at him clouded her mind, so Jill stared down at her feet and concentrated on the movements.
"Look at me," he said.
"I can't," she said. "You're too distracting."
"That's part of the dance, though. You have to be able to do it even when you're distracted."
"Okay." She looked up and focused just past his shoulder to a picture on the wall.
He chuckled. "You're cheating," he said. "You're not looking at me. This is a social dance. Look at me, Jill."
Hearing him say her name did wonderful things to her respiratory system. "They're your feet," she warned him crisply, and looked into his eyes. She immediately stumbled.
"Slide, slide," he said, holding her gaze.
Clinging to him with her arms, with her eyes, she somehow managed to keep pace.
"Very good. You're ready for the next distraction," he said, and lowered his mouth to hers.
He made the room spin, but she kept dancing. He made love to her mouth, French kissing her, sliding his tongue over hers. Slide, slide. His tongue swept into her mouth, his lips seducing her, turning up her body heat.
With his mouth still fastened to hers, he tugged the zipper of her purple sheath all the way down her back. He pulled her to a stop and sent the dress down over her shoulders and hips to the floor and guided her out of it.
Sweeping her body against his, he skimmed his hands over her bare skin, hair, neck and back as if he couldn't touch enough of her at once. Through the sheer fabric of her bra, his chest abraded her nipples. Jill felt a drugging eroticism seep through her.
"You feel so good," he said, teasing the underside of her breast with his thumb.
She felt her bra snap loose, and he toyed with the stiff tips of her breasts. The sensation made her restless; she pushed her breast against his palm. Too much, not enough. He must have felt her
Jill had practiced a zippy little speech that evaporated from her mind the second she stared at his bare chest. Just the right amount of chest hair arrowed down to the top of his jeans. Her pulse clamored in her head.
Forcing her gaze away from him, she took in what she could of his den. A comfortable couch, a southwestern throw, pillows, an overstuffed chair, a table topped with books and a terra-cotta lamp and an entertainment center.
CD player.
The sight jogged her memory, but her courage sagged. She wanted to say, help! "Are you sure this isn't too late?" she asked in a near whisper.
He shook his head.
"I brought some wine," she said, not quite meeting his gaze. "And a CD. I thought you maybe could give me another lesson in two-stepping." She took a breath. "But you're probably too tired for that, so—"
"I'm not," he said, and reached for the bag she held. He took her hand, too, as if he knew she might back out, and led her to a small kitchen.
"You saw Sam tonight," he said, as he uncorked the wine.
Sam. An easier subject. She took a breath. "Yes. He was doing wonderfully. I think he had more energy than I did," she said.
Tyler filled one wineglass. "His prognosis is excellent. You should feel good. You helped him through a terrible time."
"He kinda helped me, too."
He nodded and offered her a sip.
She took two. "You aren't going to have any?"
"We can share," he said and took the bottle and CD with him as he led her back to the den. "Take off your shoes," he said, and with a slow wicked smile added, "and anything else you might like to ditch."
She stepped out of her shoes, shoved them out of the way and took another gulp of wine. He programmed the CD player, and the music flowed through the room. He took her hand and stood in dance position as if he didn't know she was here to make love with him. His shoulder was warm and muscular beneath her palm, and that single button at the top of his jeans was still unfastened. She bit her lip.
"The secret is the slide. When I slide forward, you slide backward. Slide, slide," he said, beginning the dance. "That's right."
Looking at him clouded her mind, so Jill stared down at her feet and concentrated on the movements.
"Look at me," he said.
"I can't," she said. "You're too distracting."
"That's part of the dance, though. You have to be able to do it even when you're distracted."
"Okay." She looked up and focused just past his shoulder to a picture on the wall.
He chuckled. "You're cheating," he said. "You're not looking at me. This is a social dance. Look at me, Jill."
Hearing him say her name did wonderful things to her respiratory system. "They're your feet," she warned him crisply, and looked into his eyes. She immediately stumbled.
"Slide, slide," he said, holding her gaze.
Clinging to him with her arms, with her eyes, she somehow managed to keep pace.
"Very good. You're ready for the next distraction," he said, and lowered his mouth to hers.
He made the room spin, but she kept dancing. He made love to her mouth, French kissing her, sliding his tongue over hers. Slide, slide. His tongue swept into her mouth, his lips seducing her, turning up her body heat.
With his mouth still fastened to hers, he tugged the zipper of her purple sheath all the way down her back. He pulled her to a stop and sent the dress down over her shoulders and hips to the floor and guided her out of it.
Sweeping her body against his, he skimmed his hands over her bare skin, hair, neck and back as if he couldn't touch enough of her at once. Through the sheer fabric of her bra, his chest abraded her nipples. Jill felt a drugging eroticism seep through her.
"You feel so good," he said, teasing the underside of her breast with his thumb.
She felt her bra snap loose, and he toyed with the stiff tips of her breasts. The sensation made her restless; she pushed her breast against his palm. Too much, not enough. He must have felt her
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