Pursued. Tracy WolffЧитать онлайн книгу.
cracked up. “Suspicious much?”
“I’ve seen Silence of the Lambs. I know how these things work.”
“It appears that you do. But, sadly, I have no basement. And no handcuffs. And no deep-seated psychopathology, at least not that I know of. Also, I don’t have a clue how to sew. So, you’re probably safe.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She eyed him with mock suspicion. “So what exactly is this proposition of yours?”
“That I keep your phone number, even though you aren’t exactly overjoyed that I’ve got it. And I promise that I won’t call you until you call me first. Fair?”
“What if I never call you?”
“Then I’ll be very sad, but I promise I won’t bother you with harassing phone calls. Deal?”
She thought about it for a moment, thought about whether or not she would ever want to talk to him again once this night was over. And decided, what the hell. She might as well leave the option open. If she didn’t want to use it, well, then, he was giving her the perfect opportunity to walk away, no harm, no foul.
“Deal,” she told him.
“Excellent.” He smiled, then reached a hand up to rub the back of his neck. Involuntarily, her eyes were drawn to his very enticing six-pack and the V-cut that peeked out of the top of his low-slung jeans. She locked her jaw and, for the second time that night, tried not to drool.
She must not have been very successful, though, because his voice was amused a few seconds later when he asked, “See something you like?”
“I like you.” The words were out before she had a clue she was going to say them. The second it registered that she’d actually spoken what she’d only planned to think, she clapped her hand over her mouth in horror.
She wanted to take them back, wanted to pretend she hadn’t just screwed up everything by letting her tongue—and her emotions—get away from her. But it was too late. The words hung there in the air between them, like a bomb waiting to go off.
He didn’t look horrified by her admission, though. Didn’t look as if he was about to duck and cover in an effort to avoid the shrapnel from the bomb she had just dropped. In fact, Nic looked absolutely delighted, as though she’d given him a present…or the best orgasm of his life.
Which wasn’t so far-fetched when she thought about it. He’d certainly done that for her, after all.
Before she could think of something—anything—to say that might work as damage control, he closed the small distance between them. He turned her stool around so that she was facing him, then moved closer still, until he was nestled between the V of her spread legs.
“I like you, too,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then another one to her cheek and yet another one to her lips.
“Do you?” she asked, tilting her head back so he could skim his lips along the side of her neck.
“I do. And since we’ve established that you like me as well…” His hands went to the buttons of the too-big shirt she was wearing. His shirt, she thought dazedly as he slipped the first two buttons through their holes then gently skimmed his knuckles along the undersides of her breasts. “I think we should maybe head back to my bedroom and like each other some more.”
“Like each other some more?” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady despite the heat arcing through her like a lightning storm. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
He laughed. “It’s what I’m calling it. Sorry. I know it’s not very romantic, but my brain pretty much stops working the second I touch you.”
She was charmed by the admission despite herself. Determined to keep things light after the confession she’d had no intention of making, she told him, “I guess it’s all right if your brain isn’t working, as long as other parts of your anatomy are.”
He quirked a brow at her. “The other parts of my anatomy are working just fine, thank you very much.”
“Oh, yeah?” She ran a hand over his firm, hard chest. “Prove it.”
His eyes darkened at the challenge and he grabbed her hips. Pulled her forward until she was balanced right on the edge of the seat and her sex was nestled right up against the hard ridge of his erection.
“Proof enough for you?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.
“I don’t know. I think I might need a more detailed demonstration.” She arched against him then, reveling in the groan he didn’t even try to hold back.
“A more detailed demonstration, hmm?” He slid his hands under her and picked her up as if she weighed nothing. For the second time that night, Desi wound her arms and legs around him.
She clung to him like a limpet as he carried her out of the kitchen, through the family room and down the long hallway that led to his bedroom. She waited until he’d crossed over the threshold before she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “‘Need You Tonight.’”
“I need you, too,” he said as he carried her over to the bed.
It was her turn to laugh. “I meant, that’s my favorite song.”
Something moved in his eyes—something wonderful and terrifying and so, so exhilarating. Then he was kissing her, his mouth slamming down on hers with the same desperation that was suddenly crashing through her.
And then they were falling onto the bed with him on top of her.
“What’s your favorite song?” she managed to choke out as he finished unbuttoning her shirt, pressing kisses to each new bit of exposed skin. Her brain was going fast, her body taking over, but after all the back-and-forth, she wanted—needed—to know this one thing about him.
“I thought that was obvious,” he said and she could feel him smile against her stomach. “Eric Clapton’s ‘Wonderful Tonight.’”
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