Run the Risk. Lori FosterЧитать онлайн книгу.
And hoagies or chili only takes half an hour.”
“You do a lot of fast food, too, huh?”
“During the summer I usually grill dinner. You know that. But at night, after it gets quiet, sometimes I…” She shrugged.
“You can’t sleep?”
“I enjoy the peace,” she corrected. “I don’t have a set schedule, so when I want to watch an old movie, or catch up on the news, I do. I think I’m a natural night owl.”
“So you curl up on the couch with some fast food?” It was a cute picture. What type of pajamas did she wear? A granny gown? T-shirt and panties? Somehow he couldn’t picture her in lingerie. “Maybe you can share the numbers of the local restaurants with me.”
“All right.” Though she hung back in the kitchen doorway, she asked, “Can I do anything?”
Oh, hell yeah. She could do all sorts of things. He gave her a smile but said, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll just grab some plates and napkins when it gets here.” He handed her drink to her. “Want to watch TV now, or sit on the balcony?”
She looked toward his balcony but again hesitated, so he took the decision away from her.
“Let’s see what’s on TV.” Taking her hand, he led her to the sofa. He sat down and pulled her down beside him, probably closer than she liked, but not as close as he wanted.
She sat stiff, silent and wary. After setting her drink on the coffee table, she clasped her hands together in her lap, pressed her knees and ankles together, kept her back military straight.
All because he sat beside her? “Relax.”
“I am relaxed,” she said too fast.
After a long look, he grinned at her and shook his head. “I think I’ll have to teach you how to loosen up.”
Her eyes flared, especially when he put aside his beer and reached for her shoulders.
But he only pressed her back against the couch, and began kneading her tensed muscles. “C’mon, Sue. Take out the starch. Inhale a big breath…that’s it. Now let it out nice and slow.”
She tried, but she was still far too rigid.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get there eventually.” He settled back beside her. “That’s a promise, by the way.” Using the remote, he turned on the set and flipped through the channels until he found a movie in the middle of a love scene.
“There you go.” He took a swig of his beer. “Better than suffering more of that broiling sun.”
For a minute or two she watched the movie, her breathing deep and even, until the sex scene faded to dark. When the commercial came on, he flipped channels again, finding a sports update.
She half turned toward him, and, tension mounting, Logan waited to see what she’d do.
Using one hand, she touched his jaw. It was so unexpected, that spontaneous contact from her, that it rendered him mute, immobile and combustible.
“Men do seem to enjoy controlling the remote, don’t they?”
What did she know of men and their preferences on control? He found his voice to say, “You want me to go back to the movie?”
“I don’t care what we watch, but I’m glad you chose to stay inside.” She brushed her fingertips down to the side of his neck. “You’ve already gotten a little too much sun.”
Jesus, how could one simple touch do that to him? “On my shoulders, too,” he said huskily. “Hazard of the job, I guess. Half the time we work shirtless.”
Her gaze drifted to his shoulders, followed by her hand. “Construction is why you’re so tanned?”
“That, and I like the outdoors.” Blindly, he set aside his beer. “Swimming, boating, just being outside. I enjoy nature.” His brother had a very secret retreat on a lake. They’d each used it when they wanted to get away, when even female companionship didn’t appeal.
The log cabin was so rustic that anything more than a five-minute shower used all the hot water. Dishes had to be washed by hand—and so did clothing. The all-wood panel interior boasted three sparsely furnished bedrooms, a tiny kitchen with the barest essentials and a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. The massive front deck, flanked by towering trees, overlooked the small secluded lake that was big enough for fishing, swimming and a rowboat or small trolling motor.
“Does it hurt?” she asked softly, teasing the skin of his shoulders.
“What?” He ached with lust, but he didn’t think she meant that.
“The sunburn.” She drifted her hand up to his nape, around to his collarbone.
It was such a bold move for her, so unexpected, that he forgot his plan. He caught her wrist, kissed her palm and then flattened her hand against his chest. “Sue?”
She stared at his mouth with yearning. “Your skin is so hot.”
Fuck it. She begged for a kiss, and God knew he wasn’t a saint. In the end, what did it matter if he made his move now or later? One way or the other, she’d be his.
His to enjoy.
And then his to use.
He put his hand around her nape and pulled her in as he leaned forward. At the first touch of his mouth on hers, she made a sound of pleasure, and Logan knew he was a goner.
CHAPTER THREE
COULD ANY MAN TASTE BETTER, smell better, or be more tempting?
Heat poured off him, and Pepper wanted to feel it all over her body. She pictured him working outside, all macho in jeans and heavy boots, the sun on his bare shoulders and chest, and her pulse raced. As his mouth moved over hers, his chest hair drew her fingers again and again. Using care not to exacerbate his sun-kissed skin, she stroked him, carefully, over his shoulders, his chest—and down to his taut abdomen.
Oh, God, she wanted to feel every inch of him.
He made a sound of approval and somehow, at the same time, lowered her to her back on the couch. The plush cushions gave way to their combined weight, and she sank into them.
Having a man’s solid body over her, pressing into her—she’d missed it. So damn much.
Each kiss grew deeper, hungrier, until they were both breathing hard. He had his tongue in her mouth, exploring, and she just naturally twined her own with his.
He ran a hand down her side to her hip, his spread fingers covering a wide path, touching so much of her. He squeezed at her hip with appreciation, and even through her long skirt and underwear, it electrified her senses.
He moved his hand down her thigh until she stiffened, ready to stop him if he took things too far.
Instead, he brought that seeking hand back up her body, up, up, to her left breast.
Before she could think better of it, she arched her back, pressing into his palm, alive with sensation.
He cuddled her, but his movements slowed, became more of a search than a caress.
Lifting his head but staying very close, he said with a touch of confusion, “What kind of bra is that?”
No, she didn’t want reality to intrude. Not yet. Not now. “Sports bra,” she breathed, and took his mouth again.
A very tight, very restrictive sports bra.
Hoping he might not think too much of it, she caught his wrist and tugged his hand away. Please let me have a little more.
“I want to touch you,” he murmured, and his hand went back to her waist, this time slipping up under her loose shirt.
Sexual frustration