CHAPTER TWO

      HIS JUKEBOX GIRL didn’t say anything when he hurried her out of the bar after their kiss. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, her lips swollen. She was obviously as into the connection between them as he was.

      He didn’t usually do totally anonymous hookups. But it was Christmas, and he hated Christmas in Gold Valley, which made it difficult to breathe.

      The moment her lips had touched his he had felt like he had drawn his first full breath of air since walking into town more than a week ago.

      So he was going with it. She hadn’t asked his name, and he wasn’t going to ask hers. Names didn’t matter. She needed something from him, and he sure as hell needed something from her.

      That was going to have to be enough.

      “You got a place?” he asked when they were both in his pickup truck.

      “Yes,” she said, chewing her bottom lip. “You’re staying with your parents, aren’t you?”

      He had mentioned that he was in town visiting his parents. “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of awkward to bring home a date.”

      She laughed, a vaguely nervous sound. “I suppose so.”

      “Just give me directions.”

      It turned out she lived within walking distance, in a little house in one of the historic neighborhoods just a few blocks away. It was a small, simple structure with a pristine porch decorated with hanging flower baskets, empty in the cold, but charming nonetheless.

      Hanging flower baskets were not the kind of thing he associated with women trolling bars for one-night stands, but then maybe he didn’t really know anything.

      Typically, if he met a woman when he was on the road they would go back to his motel room. So, for all he knew all the women he slept with had hanging baskets on their porches.

      He’d never asked.

      That made it kind of strange, though. A bit more personal than he was accustomed to.

      She had white lights strung in swags across the roofline in addition to the baskets, and a little evergreen wreath hanging on the door. More Christmas. But for all he cared she could have a poinsettia on her bed, and as long as he got to have an orgasm.

      Wordlessly, she got out of the truck and didn’t wait for him as she crossed the driveway and went up to the front door. He killed the engine and followed her inside.

      The house was as neat and charming as its outward appearance gave the impression it might be. A tidy Christmas tree with gold ornaments and bows was in the corner, little touches of cheer here and there. But luckily there were no poinsettias.

      She moved to the center of the living room, standing next to a coffee table stacked high with books he had a feeling she actually read. She clasped her hands in front of her and looked around, her expression growing increasingly worried.

      “I got a new bed after my boyfriend moved out,” she said, shooting the words into the silence.

      He lifted a brow, things suddenly becoming clearer. “Did you?”

      “Just to make sure that we’re clear,” she said. “That it’s a new bed.”

      “Honey,” he responded, “I’m used to sleeping in motels. Those are not new beds. People have fucked in them.”

      Color flooded her cheeks. “I was just saying.”

      It seemed to him that she was out for a little bit of revenge sex after a bad breakup. Worked for him. He could easily call his sex revenge sex. Revenge against the world. But the world was a bitch and she didn’t care.

      “I don’t particularly care who slept here before me,” he said, advancing on her. Her pretty brown eyes widened, her lips dropping open. “I only care that I’m the only man you think about as long as I’m here. But I’m pretty sure that won’t be a problem.” She started to say something, but he pressed his thumb against the center of her lips, then curved his hand back, tracing the line of her jaw, sliding his fingers through her hair.

      Then he kissed her. Deep and luxurious. The kind of long, sensual kiss that he hadn’t allowed himself in the bar. Devouring. Raw and hungry, his tongue creating a slick friction against hers.

      He didn’t normally enjoy kissing, because as far as he was concerned it was just the sad appetizer that came before your steak. But this kiss was the exception. It was wet and hot, as soft as the rest of her.

      Kissing wasn’t his kind of thing, and come to that, this woman wasn’t usually his type. He often went for leggy, willowy types in miniskirts and backless tops.

      He didn’t do challenging. He liked obvious. Bright, blonde and sleek, with glitter on top.

      Jukebox Girl was different. Soft, curvy, a little bit more to hold on to. And he was damn glad to have his hands full of her.

      She whimpered, arching against him, her full breasts pressing against his chest, as he slid his hand down to grab her ass.

      Yeah, she was one sweet handful.

      He kissed her all the way back toward a bedroom—maybe it was hers, maybe it wasn’t, he didn’t care—and then sat her down on the edge of the bed. He pulled back, jerking his T-shirt up over his head, more than ready to have her hands on his skin.

      Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t you eat McDonald’s?”

      “What?”

      “You live on the road all the time—it seems like you would subsist on French fries and hamburgers.”

      “I kind of do,” he responded. “Though I typically prefer bar food.”

      She waved her arm up and down. “Then how is it you don’t have any fat on your entire body?”

      He looks down at his flat stomach. “I work outside. It’s hard labor.”

      Her face turned pink. “I’m wearing Spanx.”

      He frowned, not sure what that had to do with anything. “Okay.”

      “I’m not skinny.” She said it like she was announcing her status as a convicted killer.

      He passed his hand over the front of his jeans, over the very obvious bulge there. “Do I look like I care?”

      She looked down. “Some men care.”

      Irritation spiked in him. She had mentioned an ex-boyfriend, and he had a feeling the ex was responsible for the horrible, crestfallen look on this beautiful woman’s face.

      He leaned forward, flattening his palms on the mattress on either side of her. “You,” he said, “are hot as fuck. Spanx or no Spanx. Though, I have to tell you, I would prefer no Spanx right at the moment.”

      She flushed, a pretty pink color, and he gripped the hem of her shirt, pulling it up over her head and revealing breasts that were as generous as he’d been hoping they might be, shoved up a bit higher like they were an offering to him thanks to the black contraption she had on underneath, a one-piece-looking jumpsuit with a deep neckline that scooped just beneath her bra.

      He pulled one strap down from her shoulder, then pushed the other down, tugging it to the top of her skirt waistband. Then he flicked her bra strap down, then the other. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, all that soft, glorious cleavage.

      She