dog down and brushed black fur from his white Henley. He wanted to get pissed off, but he’d dumped a puppy on her so he didn’t suppose he could get indignant about it now. “I don’t imagine you’re going to pick up your half.”
She shook her head. The heels of her boots tapping across his wood floor drew his gaze to her long bare legs in black fuck-me boots. “Possession is nine-tenths the law. Remember?”
Yeah. He remembered.
She reached for his bottle of water on the counter and made herself at home. “Do you cook?” She unscrewed the cap and lifted it to her lips.
“I Crock-Pot,” he answered as he watched her drain the bottle. “Do you want some water?”
“No. I’m not thirsty.” She wiped the back of her hand across her red mouth and set the empty bottle back down. “Are you recently divorced?”
“No.” He took his phone from the pocket of his jeans and set it on the island. “Never married.”
Again her heels tapped across the floor as she wandered into the living room. Tap-taps like a sexual code. A relay of information. It was late. She was in his house. He needed to get laid.
Copy that.
“You don’t have much furniture.” She turned in a slow circle while she looked up at the vaulted ceilings. “I thought maybe you got wiped out in a divorce.”
“Before moving here, I lived in a condo in Virginia Beach. I wasn’t there a lot.”
She looked over her shoulder at him as she walked to the big front windows. “Are you anti-marriage?”
What was this? Twenty-question night? “I think marriage is great. For other people.” His ran his gaze up the backs of her legs. “But it’s not for me.”
“Get your heart broke a time or two?” She stopped in front of her reflection.
“No.” He moved behind her, and his gaze met hers in the window. “Are you anti-marriage?”
“No. I’ve been married.” She looked out at the darkness, and the smattering of town lights across the lake. “I’d get married again if I met the right man.” She turned to face him and her cape brushed the front of his jeans. “A man around the house would come in handy for those things I can’t do myself.”
Sex. She couldn’t have skin-on-skin sex by herself.
“Like lifting heavy objects and opening pickle jars.”
Pickle jars? That’s why she wanted a man around?
“The problem with living in Truly,” she continued, “is that I went to school with most of the men in town, and none of them are the right one, either.” The corners of her lips turned down as her brows pulled together. “If one more person asks if Michael’s living with me when he’s getting out, I’m going to go all flying snooker crazy.”
He’d been trained and tested in hand-to-hand combat. He knew where to hit a man to take him out for a while or for good. “What the hell is ‘flying snooker crazy’?”
“I don’t know. It sounded lethal when I thought it up in my head, but I’m kind of drunk.” Her hand slipped from behind her cape and she twisted the cord around her finger. “I think it’s a combination between a flying kick and a snooker punch.”
“I guess I won’t ask about your ex and risk a flying-snooker butt kicking.” He watched her long fingers and short pink nails work the cord and felt it twist his nuts. He wanted her. He wanted to feel her fingers sliding down his chest and diving beneath his pants. She’d told him she wasn’t a booty call kind of woman. He bet he could get her to change her mind.
After a few seconds of twisting she asked, “If you aren’t anti-marriage, and you’ve never been married, why do you think it’s not for you?”
He raised his gaze from her hand to her red mouth. The lipstick smear tempted him to smear her up a bit more. “I don’t have to get hog-tied and barbecued to know getting a spit shoved up my ass isn’t for me.”
“Ouch.” The corners of her mouth turned up. “Have you ever lived with a woman?”
“Yeah.” He took the cord from
She shook her head. The heels of her boots tapping across his wood floor drew his gaze to her long bare legs in black fuck-me boots. “Possession is nine-tenths the law. Remember?”
Yeah. He remembered.
She reached for his bottle of water on the counter and made herself at home. “Do you cook?” She unscrewed the cap and lifted it to her lips.
“I Crock-Pot,” he answered as he watched her drain the bottle. “Do you want some water?”
“No. I’m not thirsty.” She wiped the back of her hand across her red mouth and set the empty bottle back down. “Are you recently divorced?”
“No.” He took his phone from the pocket of his jeans and set it on the island. “Never married.”
Again her heels tapped across the floor as she wandered into the living room. Tap-taps like a sexual code. A relay of information. It was late. She was in his house. He needed to get laid.
Copy that.
“You don’t have much furniture.” She turned in a slow circle while she looked up at the vaulted ceilings. “I thought maybe you got wiped out in a divorce.”
“Before moving here, I lived in a condo in Virginia Beach. I wasn’t there a lot.”
She looked over her shoulder at him as she walked to the big front windows. “Are you anti-marriage?”
What was this? Twenty-question night? “I think marriage is great. For other people.” His ran his gaze up the backs of her legs. “But it’s not for me.”
“Get your heart broke a time or two?” She stopped in front of her reflection.
“No.” He moved behind her, and his gaze met hers in the window. “Are you anti-marriage?”
“No. I’ve been married.” She looked out at the darkness, and the smattering of town lights across the lake. “I’d get married again if I met the right man.” She turned to face him and her cape brushed the front of his jeans. “A man around the house would come in handy for those things I can’t do myself.”
Sex. She couldn’t have skin-on-skin sex by herself.
“Like lifting heavy objects and opening pickle jars.”
Pickle jars? That’s why she wanted a man around?
“The problem with living in Truly,” she continued, “is that I went to school with most of the men in town, and none of them are the right one, either.” The corners of her lips turned down as her brows pulled together. “If one more person asks if Michael’s living with me when he’s getting out, I’m going to go all flying snooker crazy.”
He’d been trained and tested in hand-to-hand combat. He knew where to hit a man to take him out for a while or for good. “What the hell is ‘flying snooker crazy’?”
“I don’t know. It sounded lethal when I thought it up in my head, but I’m kind of drunk.” Her hand slipped from behind her cape and she twisted the cord around her finger. “I think it’s a combination between a flying kick and a snooker punch.”
“I guess I won’t ask about your ex and risk a flying-snooker butt kicking.” He watched her long fingers and short pink nails work the cord and felt it twist his nuts. He wanted her. He wanted to feel her fingers sliding down his chest and diving beneath his pants. She’d told him she wasn’t a booty call kind of woman. He bet he could get her to change her mind.
After a few seconds of twisting she asked, “If you aren’t anti-marriage, and you’ve never been married, why do you think it’s not for you?”
He raised his gaze from her hand to her red mouth. The lipstick smear tempted him to smear her up a bit more. “I don’t have to get hog-tied and barbecued to know getting a spit shoved up my ass isn’t for me.”
“Ouch.” The corners of her mouth turned up. “Have you ever lived with a woman?”
“Yeah.” He took the cord from
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