Wild And Wicked. Joanne Rock
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of erotic body parts into casual conversation.
He was definitely gawking right now as he stared at her with his perfect mouth hanging wide open. Or at least he was until he edged out a strained, “The hell you will.”
Plucking the tiny ornament out of her hand, Jesse slapped it back on the velvet-covered melon crate.
“Excuse me?” Kyra stared him down, more than ready for a serious face-off with this man.
It had required major effort to edge the word “nipple” from her mouth. Kyra could discuss the particulars of animal husbandry at the drop of a hat, but somehow a nipple reference in regard to her own body struck her as rather risqué. Nevertheless, the effort had been well worth it considering she had Jesse’s full attention now.
Or else the body part in question had his full attention. He stared at her blouse as if he could envision the tiny silver loop locked around the peak of her breast.
“This isn’t working,” he growled in one ear as he propelled her away from the jewelry vendor’s display and back into the swell of the crowd. “We’re getting out of here.”
“Fine by me.” Kyra shot back over her shoulder as they edged past a Gasparilla reveler wearing a skull mask and a cape decorated in shiny white bones. She backed up a step to avoid the man, effectively plastering herself against Jesse’s chest. The hard strength of his body taunted her with sensual visions of their limbs intertwined, taut muscle to smooth skin. “That’s all the sooner I can take you home and have my way with you, ye scurvy knave.”
She felt his body stir behind her a split second before he nudged her forward again. “We’ll see who’s having their way with whom.”
The strangled rasp of his voice weakened the power of his threat. Kyra smiled her satisfaction as they wound their way past a man on stilts selling eye patches and bandannas.
“Whatever would you want from me if you could have your way, Jesse Chandler?” She glanced over her shoulder to find herself eye-level with a rock solid jaw and forbidding frown.
“Friendship of the platonic variety. And a promise never to wear leather again.”
“The corset is working, isn’t it?” She mentally applauded the Gasparilla costumer for hooking her up with the sex-goddess pirate outfit.
As they hit the next crossroad to Bayshore Boulevard, Jesse steered her away from the festival toward the city. In the background, Kyra could hear the marching bands in the distance as the pirate parade charged toward the convention center.
“Is it working to turn every bug-eyed male head within a five-mile radius? Yes. Is it working for the preposterous purpose of sacrificing our friendship for a few hours of great sex? Not a chance in hell.” He guided her through gridlocked downtown traffic toward his motorcycle parked sideways on the street between two pickup trucks.
She’d ridden into Tampa with a neighbor, so it wasn’t like she minded being given a ride home. Still, she didn’t appreciate being hauled around by a man who wasn’t willing to bend an inch.
Jerking to a stop by his Harley, she tried not to be discouraged as he handed her a helmet—the spare he always carried in case some brazen female talked her way into a ride. Or more.
Why couldn’t she be that woman today?
“You think I’d forfeit our solid working relationship for amazing sex? Come on, Jesse. You know me better than that.” She strapped the helmet under her chin. She didn’t mind leaving Gasparilla if it meant time alone with Jesse to persuade him of her cause.
Besides, the idea of straddling his bike—and him—while clad in fishnets and a miniskirt was making her seriously hot and bothered.
Swinging one leg over the bike, Kyra gave Jesse a clear view of inner thigh, stopping just short of flashing him. A girl needed to keep some sense of mystery intact. “And you seem to be forgetting that you’re not in charge here today. Leaving the festival grounds doesn’t mean you stop being my prisoner, and as long as I’m calling the shots, you’re going to have to please me.”
She patted the leather seat in front of her. “Now why don’t you give me that ride I’ve been wanting?”
THE SEXUAL IMPLICATION of Kyra’s words echoed through Jesse’s mind as he maneuvered the motorcycle around a tight turn just before the sign for Crooked Branch Farm. He was sweating bullets after the hour-long ride back to the ranch, which spread along the Crystal River in Citrus County.
Kyra’s thighs hugged his hips while her sweet, sunny scent teased his nose. Her arms wrapped around his waist, pressing her breasts into his back. And he couldn’t even think about that other part of her that grazed his jeans. Her short skirt provided intimate exposure for the pink lace panties he’d spied when she first straddled his bike.
Now all he could think about were those ultrafeminine undergarments and what it might be like to peel them from Kyra’s body.
Her invitation to take her for a ride had paralyzed him for a heart-pounding five seconds. Jesse had zero experience turning down those kinds of invitations. Having realized at an early age that he was too restless to settle down, too much like his old man to tie himself to any one woman, Jesse had carefully constructed a reputation for himself as a player. With that legend-in-his-own-time aura preceding him, no woman would ever be surprised by his lack of commitment.
And in turn, he’d never disappoint anyone.
But the strategy that had worked like a charm for ten years was unraveling in a big way. First, Greta staunchly ignored all the hype about him and—according to what she’d told him earlier this afternoon—she’d sold her Miami Beach condo for an apartment in Tampa.
Now Kyra was suggesting a fling he couldn’t afford to take any part in.
No matter how much his body screamed at him otherwise.
Bringing the bike to a stop a few feet from Kyra’s long, low-slung ranch house, Jesse willed away all provocative thoughts as he disengaged himself from her. He needed a cool head to talk her out of the big mistake she seemed determined to make.
She slid from the bike with the fluid movements of a woman who’d ridden horses all her life. Odd that he’d never noticed the quiet grace and strength about her before.
“Come on inside and I’ll get you a drink,” she offered, slipping her helmet from her head to place it gently on the seat.
Jesse stared in her wake as she sauntered up the flagstone path toward the front door, her lace-up boots clicking a follow-me tempo. He’d been too caught up in her new subtle politeness to ride off into the sunset on his bike while he had the chance.
Shit.
How could he just leave without even saying goodbye? He found his feet trailing after her before his mind consciously made the decision to go inside the house.
She’d left the door open wide into the cool, sprawling home he’d helped her build on a patch of the Crooked Branch property five years ago. The mish-mash of Spanish influenced stucco archways, miniature Italian courtyards and contemporary architecture had been the first house he’d ever custom-designed from scratch and he continued to be proud of it in the years since his skills had improved tenfold. The house was so uniquely suited to Kyra he couldn’t picture anyone else ever living here.
He’d always felt at home here before. Today he had the impression of a fly venturing farther into a silken, sweetly scented web.
One quick goodbye and he was out of here.
“Kyra?” He didn’t see her right away as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting indoors. The sound of the refrigerator door thudding shut called him toward the kitchen.
She stood at the triangular island in the center of the room, tipping a longneck bottle of Mexican beer to her lips. A few damp tendrils of blond hair clung to her neck from the warmth of the day.
He’d