The Merciless Travis Wilde. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
breath caught.
His eyes were dark. His hair was the color of rich, dark coffee. It was thick, and longer than a man’s hair should be, longer, anyway, than the way men in her world wore it, and she had the swift, almost overwhelming desire to bury her hands in it.
Plus, he was tall.
Tall and long and lean and muscled.
You could almost sense the hard delineation of muscle in his wide shoulders and arms and chest, and—and she was almost certain he had a—what did you call it? A six-pack, that was it. A six-pack right there, in his middle.
A middle that led down to—down to his lower middle.
To more muscle, a different kind of muscle, hidden behind faded denim …
Her cheeks burned.
Her gaze flew up again, over, what, all six foot two, six foot three of him. Flew up over worn boots, jeans that fit his long legs and narrow hips like a second skin, a T-shirt that clung to his torso.
Their eyes met.
Tall as she was, especially in the stilettos, she had to look up for that to happen.
He smiled.
Her mouth went dry. He was, in a word, gorgeous.
“Baby,” he said in a husky voice. “What took you so long?”
Huh?
Nobody knew she’d been coming here tonight. She hadn’t even known it herself, until she’d pulled into the parking lot.
“Excuse me?”
His smile became a grin. Could grins be sexy and hot? Oh yes. Yes, they could.
“Only if you ask real nice,” he said, and then, without any warning, she was in his arms and his mouth was on hers.
CHAPTER THREE
TRAVIS LIKED WOMEN.
In bed, of course. Sex was one of life’s great pleasures. But he liked them in other ways, too.
Their scent. Their softness. Those Mona Lisa smiles that could keep a man guessing for hours, even days.
And all the things that were part of sex …
He could never have enough of those.
He knew, from years of locker-room talk, that some men saw kissing as nothing but a distraction from the main event.
Not him.
Kissing was something that deserved plenty of time. He loved exploring a woman’s taste, the silken texture of her lips, the feel of them as they parted to the demand of his.
Women liked it, too.
Enough of them had mingled their sighs with his, melted in his arms, parted their lips to the silken thrust of his tongue to convince him—why not be honest?—that he was a man skilled at the act.
Tonight, none of that mattered.
The blonde was attractive—the ruse wouldn’t work if she weren’t—but there was nothing personal involved.
Kissing her was a means to an end, a way to get him out of a confrontation in a Dallas dive to a boardroom in Frankfurt without looking as if he’d gone ten rounds in a bar exactly like this one.
The key to success? He’d known he’d have to move fast, take her by surprise, kiss her hard enough to silence any protest.
With luck, she’d go along with the game.
Far more exotic things happened in bars everywhere than a man stealing a kiss.
Besides, a woman who looked like this, who walked into a place like this, wasn’t naive.
For all he knew, she was out slumming.
A kiss from a stranger might be just the turn-on she wanted.
And if she protested, he’d play to his audience, pretend it was all about her being ticked off at him for some imagined lover’s slight.
Either way, he wasn’t going to give her, or them, a lot of time to think about it.
He’d kiss her, then hustle her outside where he could explain it had all been a game and either thank her for her cooperation or apologize for what he’d done … or maybe, just maybe, she’d laugh and what the hell, the night was still young.
Bottom line?
Kissing her was all he had to work with, so he flashed his best smile, the one that never failed to thaw a woman’s defenses, reached out, put his arms around her, gathered her in …
Her eyes widened. She slapped both hands against his chest.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Travis showed her.
He captured her lips with his.
For nothing longer than a second, he thought he was home free. Sure, she stiffened against him, said “Mmmff” or something close to it, but he could work with that.
The problem?
She went crazy in his arms.
It would have done his ego good to think she’d gone crazy with pleasure.
But she hadn’t.
She went crazy the way he’d once seen his sister Em do when she’d bent down to pick up what she’d thought was a compact and found herself, instead, with a handful of tarantula.
The blonde in his arms jerked against him. Pounded his shoulders with her fists. Said that “Mmmff” thing again and again and again …
Somebody laughed.
Somebody said, “What the hell’s he doin’?”
Somebody else said, “Damned if ah know.”
What Travis knew was that this was not good.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he snarled, his mouth a breath from Blondie’s.
“Mmmff!”
She struggled harder. Lifted her foot. Put one of those stiletto heels into his instep and it was a damn good thing he was wearing boots.
He put his lips to her ear.
“Lady. Listen to what I’m saying. I’m not—”
Big mistake.
“Help,” she yelled, or would have yelled—he could see her lips forming the sound of that “h”—so, really, what choice did he have?
He kissed her again.
This time, her knee came up.
He felt it coming, twisted to avoid it, then hung on to her for dear life.
The crowd hooted.
Jeez, was he going to be the night’s entertainment?
“Lady sure do seem happy to see you, cowboy,” the Mountain shouted.
Everybody roared with laughter.
Okay.
This called for a different approach.
Travis thrust one hand into Blondie’s hair, clamped the other at the base of her spine, tilted her backward over his arm just enough to keep her off balance and brushed his lips over hers.
Once. Twice. Three times, each time ignoring that angry Mmmff.
“Don’t fight me,” he whispered between kisses. “Just make this look real and I swear, I’ll let you go.”
No mmmff that time. Nothing but a little sighing sound …
And the softest, most delicate whisper of her breath.
“Good