Sometimes I envy women who get pleasure from their breasts, but I’m not one of them, and anyway, I figure keeping a cool head more than offsets the lack.
Kiss my neck, however, and I melt. It’s a weakness, because a man can kiss your neck without taking your clothes off, so I don’t go around blabbing about it. How had Wyatt noticed so fast?
He was a cop. Noticing details was part of who and what he was. That’s fine when he’s after a criminal, but he shouldn’t be allowed to use that skill in a sexual situation.
“Keep your hands
and
your mouth off my neck,” I said, turning around to glare at him. “We are
so
not doing this.”
“You have a remarkable talent for ignoring the obvious,” he said, grinning down at me.
“I’m not ignoring it; I’m making an executive decision. I don’t want to have sex with you again. It’s not a good thing for me—”
“Liar.”
“—in any way other than sexually,” I finished, glaring harder. “Just go back to your life and I’ll go back to mine, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
“That’s not going to happen. Why are you so dead set against us getting together again?”
“We were never
together.
The term implies a relationship, and we never got that far.”
“Stop splitting hairs. I couldn’t forget about you and you couldn’t forget about me. Okay, I give up: not seeing you didn’t work.”
I turned my back and began shampooing my hair, so angry I couldn’t think of anything to say. He
wanted
to forget about me? I’d be glad to help him. Maybe if I hit him in the head with something hard—
“Don’t you want to know why?” he asked, sliding his fingers into my hair and massaging my scalp.
“No,” I said stonily.
He moved closer, so close his naked body was pressed against me as he worked the suds through my hair. “Then I won’t tell you. One day you’ll want to know, and we’ll talk about it then.”
He was the most exasperating man I’d ever seen. I clamped my teeth together to keep from asking him to tell me.
Frustration and resentment built, and finally I relieved it by saying, “You’re such an asshole jerk.”
He laughed and pushed my head under the shower.
Chapter
Eight
I don’t know how I ended up going to dinner with him. Actually, I do. He wouldn’t leave.
I had to eat, and I was starving. So after I got out of the shower, I totally ignored him while I dried my hair and got ready, which actually doesn’t take all that long because I didn’t bother with anything more than the basic makeup—mascara and lipstick. The summer heat meant I’d just sweat off anything more, so why go to the trouble?
He irritated me no end by actually bumping me away from the bathroom sink with his hip so he could shave. I stared at him openmouthed, because that just isn’t the way things work. He looked at me in the mirror and winked. In a snit, I marched into the bedroom and threw on some clothes, which again didn’t take long because I didn’t bring much in the first place, and what I did bring was color coordinated. Now that I wasn’t in a fog of lust, I saw a small black duffel sitting open on the floor at the foot of the bed; that was evidently where the razor and shaving cream came from.
Come to think of it, the closet was fuller . . .
I whirled and opened the closet again. Yes, pushed to the side were a pair of jeans and a polo shirt.
I grabbed them off the hangers and turned to stuff them back into that duffel where they belonged. He came out of the bathroom in time to say, “Thanks for getting these out for me,” as he took them from my hands and put them on.
That was when I realized he was out of control, and the best thing I could do was escape.
While he was pulling on his jeans, I rushed through the living room and grabbed my bag and keys on the way out. A rental sedan—a white Saturn—was parked beside the truck, another little detail I’d missed in my earlier delirium. I opened the truck door and
Kiss my neck, however, and I melt. It’s a weakness, because a man can kiss your neck without taking your clothes off, so I don’t go around blabbing about it. How had Wyatt noticed so fast?
He was a cop. Noticing details was part of who and what he was. That’s fine when he’s after a criminal, but he shouldn’t be allowed to use that skill in a sexual situation.
“Keep your hands
and
your mouth off my neck,” I said, turning around to glare at him. “We are
so
not doing this.”
“You have a remarkable talent for ignoring the obvious,” he said, grinning down at me.
“I’m not ignoring it; I’m making an executive decision. I don’t want to have sex with you again. It’s not a good thing for me—”
“Liar.”
“—in any way other than sexually,” I finished, glaring harder. “Just go back to your life and I’ll go back to mine, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
“That’s not going to happen. Why are you so dead set against us getting together again?”
“We were never
together.
The term implies a relationship, and we never got that far.”
“Stop splitting hairs. I couldn’t forget about you and you couldn’t forget about me. Okay, I give up: not seeing you didn’t work.”
I turned my back and began shampooing my hair, so angry I couldn’t think of anything to say. He
wanted
to forget about me? I’d be glad to help him. Maybe if I hit him in the head with something hard—
“Don’t you want to know why?” he asked, sliding his fingers into my hair and massaging my scalp.
“No,” I said stonily.
He moved closer, so close his naked body was pressed against me as he worked the suds through my hair. “Then I won’t tell you. One day you’ll want to know, and we’ll talk about it then.”
He was the most exasperating man I’d ever seen. I clamped my teeth together to keep from asking him to tell me.
Frustration and resentment built, and finally I relieved it by saying, “You’re such an asshole jerk.”
He laughed and pushed my head under the shower.
Chapter
Eight
I don’t know how I ended up going to dinner with him. Actually, I do. He wouldn’t leave.
I had to eat, and I was starving. So after I got out of the shower, I totally ignored him while I dried my hair and got ready, which actually doesn’t take all that long because I didn’t bother with anything more than the basic makeup—mascara and lipstick. The summer heat meant I’d just sweat off anything more, so why go to the trouble?
He irritated me no end by actually bumping me away from the bathroom sink with his hip so he could shave. I stared at him openmouthed, because that just isn’t the way things work. He looked at me in the mirror and winked. In a snit, I marched into the bedroom and threw on some clothes, which again didn’t take long because I didn’t bring much in the first place, and what I did bring was color coordinated. Now that I wasn’t in a fog of lust, I saw a small black duffel sitting open on the floor at the foot of the bed; that was evidently where the razor and shaving cream came from.
Come to think of it, the closet was fuller . . .
I whirled and opened the closet again. Yes, pushed to the side were a pair of jeans and a polo shirt.
I grabbed them off the hangers and turned to stuff them back into that duffel where they belonged. He came out of the bathroom in time to say, “Thanks for getting these out for me,” as he took them from my hands and put them on.
That was when I realized he was out of control, and the best thing I could do was escape.
While he was pulling on his jeans, I rushed through the living room and grabbed my bag and keys on the way out. A rental sedan—a white Saturn—was parked beside the truck, another little detail I’d missed in my earlier delirium. I opened the truck door and
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