With This Fling. Jeanie London
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bravado was slipping around the edges and he took the opportunity to wrap his arm around her shoulder and steer her out of the garage.
“That way.” She motioned to a flagstone walkway leading away from the house.
Clouds separated, allowing moonlight to illuminate the neat lawn and a sizable cottage on the north corner of the property that had likely begun life as a guest house.
He helped her up the steps and waited while she fished through her purse for keys. After unlocking the door, she flipped on the porch light and he glimpsed the interior, an open floor plan, sparsely decorated and very neat. He recognized the lines of antebellum architecture and the gleam of wooden floors.
“Are you going to call a cab?” She swayed slightly before leaning against the doorjamb for support.
“Are you okay?”
A beat of silence passed before she admitted, “I don’t usually drink.”
Opportunity knocked again and Mac didn’t hesitate. He scooped her into his arms and kicked the door shut.
“Gerard—”
“Hang on or I’ll drop you. You’re heavier than you look.”
She made an unladylike grunt but did as he asked, wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. He navigated through the cottage easily in the darkness and found her bedroom off the living room. He reached for the light switch but she grabbed his hand.
“No light.”
“You want the bathroom instead of the bed?” He’d already passed one but saw another doorway across the room that might lead to a private bath.
“No. My head is swimming. The bed.”
He’d been fantasizing about hearing those words and it figured that when she finally said them she wouldn’t mean them.
But he enjoyed the feel of her in his arms and took the opportunity to observe her inner sanctum. For a woman who made weapons and leather a fashion statement, her bedroom was surprisingly feminine. Tester bed with a lace canopy and a surplus of equally lacy pillows tossed over the matching comforter. Floral wallcovering. Filmy sheers on the windows.
So there was a real woman behind the shields. Wasn’t Harley just full of surprises?
Depositing her gently on the bed, he watched her curl up and close her eyes.
“Come on. Off with the jacket.” He lifted a boneless arm and tugged off the sleeve. She didn’t resist until he tried to move her to get at the other.
“Leave me alone,” she insisted. “Just let me sleep.”
“After I get some of these clothes off you.”
“You wish.” She gave another of those unladylike snorts, her sarcasm firmly in place.
“No surprise there. Now come on, give me the gun. You can’t sleep with it digging into your back.”
“I can.”
“No, you can’t.” Sinking to the edge of the bed, Mac lifted her into his arms to strip the jacket away. The instant he brought her up against him, awareness kicked in. She was a nice armful, much more appealing than when she was attacking him during training.
She helped him by shrugging off the jacket and each brush of her bare arms sharpened his awareness that they were sitting on her bed, at night, with the promise of skin between them.
He drew a deep breath. Another.
After dropping her jacket on the foot of the bed, he unfastened the holster. More contact with skin as he followed the leather straps down her back, around her waist. She shifted against him, her breathing growing shallower. He knew she must be aware of his hands hovering just through her clothes, because when he started on her one-piece pantsuit, she tried to brush him away and said, “Don’t.”
“Shh.” He swept her hair away from the zipper. “I want to put you to bed so you can sleep comfortably.”
Alcohol dropped her shields more than he’d realized, because she didn’t resist. Or maybe she was just as paralyzed by awareness as he was, a sensation that had grown almost palpable.
Resting her face in the crook of his neck, she let him peel away her bodice. He eased the sleeves away one-handed, his blood heating dangerously when he realized she wasn’t wearing a stitch below. Not a bra. Not a camisole. Not a thing to hide all that creamy skin.
She gave a shuddering sigh as he eased her back against the pillows, gifting him with a view of her full breasts and blush-colored nipples, delicate shoulders and the contour of her graceful neck up close and personal.
Just where Mac had longed to be. He couldn’t ever remember being broadsided by the sight of a woman before, had never known the sort of anticipation that arced his body from zero to sixty in less than a heartbeat that throbbed so hard it hurt.
His hands actually shook when he maneuvered the leather over her hips and he revealed her sleek curves, her long, long legs with a reverence that was so entirely unfamiliar.
Her cream-colored thong came as a surprise for a woman who went braless and loved leather. Mac wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the sight of that lacy scrap of silk wasn’t it. He had to force himself to keep dragging the pantsuit away because he so didn’t want this show to end.
“Why are you fighting me so hard, Harley?” he asked, his voice raw in the late-night quiet. “You can’t tell me you’re not attracted to me. I know you’re feeling what I do.”
He shouldn’t reveal so much. She’d only use his need against him, but with her stretched out before him, all gleaming skin and sleek curves, his need made him reckless.
“I don’t want to feel anything for you.”
“But you do.” He couldn’t resist the urge to prove it. Trailing a finger up her shapely leg, he touched her warm skin.
“Gerard…” Her voice trailed off, breathless.
“Why not, Harley? A fling makes sense.”
He continued tracing a path up her thigh, a light touch that heightened the anticipation, a small defiance designed to entice the truth from her. Or maybe just entice her.
He wanted her to feel as reckless as he did right now.
Dragging his fingertip beneath her thong, he followed the lacy edge around her hip toward the juncture of her thighs.
She trembled.
He smiled.
She frowned. “Why won’t you take no for an answer?”
“Because I want you. I want you to admit you want me.”
Simple. Honest.
“What difference will it make if I admit it? I still won’t sleep with you.” Raising her arms above her head, she stretched, a languorous display of skin, a move meant to tempt him with the very thing he wanted.
Her move pressed her smooth abdomen into his fingertip, and he knew she was teasing him, inviting him, a boldness inspired by alcohol. But Mac couldn’t resist the opportunity to touch her. Rounding the mound of her sex, he tested her heat through the scrap of sheer silk.
She was hot, moist, definitely aroused.
“You want me.” He bent forward, pressed his mouth to that lacy triangle, breathed a hot breath through the silk.
Her muscles contracted sharply. “I do, but it doesn’t make any difference.”
Hearing her admission was such a bittersweet relief that he almost laughed at the irony. He wanted this beautiful woman sprawled before him more than he’d ever wanted before. His erection throbbed so hard he ached and he couldn’t even test her claim, tempt her as much as she tempted him or try to change her mind.
Because