Bewitched: In Too Deep. Lori Foster
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looked down, took in her bare feet and growled. “I forgot you’d removed those hideous boots. You could have cut yourself on something when we ran for the truck. I can’t believe I didn’t notice sooner. Well, actually I can, given my attention was somewhat fractured by other things, but not so much so, I shouldn’t have noticed naked feet. I am a P.I. after all, usually very alert to small details.”
“Uh, Harry?”
He still stared at her feet. “Hmm?”
“The phone?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Okay, no help for it. I suppose I’ll have to play the martyr.”
“No! Don’t you dare… Harry, put me down.”
“You’re really very slight, now that we’ve rid you of your ridiculous waterlogged costume.” As he made his way up a flight of carpeted stairs, he looked down at her, their noses almost touching, and the smile he gave her made her catch her breath. His gaze dipped lower, and Charlie glanced down to see the coat had slipped some and she had a modest amount—all she possessed really—of cleavage showing. She tried to make a grab for the coat, but then Harry lowered her, and she realized she was in a taupe and black tiled bathroom, more specifically, he stood her in the black tub.
“Don’t move. I’ll play lady’s maid and get you a towel and dry clothes and you can clean up just a bit before we progress any further.”
Progress to what, she wondered? Another part of his home, or another level of intimacy? She knew where her vote would be, but she didn’t say so. She did need to clean up, and dry clothes sounded heavenly.
Harry reappeared with two plush white towels, a long polo shirt, and silky boxer shorts. He grinned as he laid the items on the marble vanity. “The thing is, you’re something of a squirt, so nothing I have would be small enough to fit you. However, I wear a “tall” so my shirt should make do for a dress, only I couldn’t bear the thought of you being naked beneath it, not if you expect me to exhibit my more civilized tendencies, so I determined the boxers would serve as well as anything.” He lifted his hands. “I’m fresh out of ladies’ panties.”
She drew a blank, except to ask, “You wear silk boxers?”
“Actually no. They were a gift from a friend.”
“Ah.”
He headed for the door. “Go ahead and wash up. You can hang the coat on the back of the door and I’ll take care of it later. There’s a hamper under the cabinet where you can stick your muddy jeans. I’ll be in the kitchen making coffee after I’ve changed.”
The second he was out the door, Charlie rushed through her bath. She stripped off the coat, praying it wasn’t ruined, and then spent several minutes working her wet, worn jeans down her legs. She didn’t know what to do with her panties—no way would she put them in his hamper for him to find later. After giving it some thought, she washed them out and hung them on the side of the tub.
She disdained a full shower for simply cleaning herself off. Calling her sister was a priority.
Once she’d pulled on the dry clothes Harry’d brought her, she found his comb and worked the tangles out of her short hair. The polo shirt hung almost to her knees, looking, as he’d predicted, like a dress. It adequately covered her, but the silky boxers tickled. Rather than toss her dirty jeans in the hamper as he’d suggested, she folded them, put her panties in the pocket along with her money, and left the bathroom.
Harry sat on a corner of a colossal bed, head bent forward while he towel-dried his hair. He had on clean khaki slacks, and nothing else. His back was broad, muscled, lightly tanned. His feet were long, narrow, braced apart on the thick carpeting. Charlie stood there gawking, appreciating what a spectacular sight he made.
Oh yes, she definitely wanted to explore these unique feelings he inspired. She’d been around men all her life, but she’d never, not once, felt this much interest in one.
Her sigh caught his attention. He lifted his head, surveyed her tip to toes, then slowly stood. “You are an adorable sight, Charlie…” He paused, looking much struck. “I just realized I don’t know your last name.”
“Jones,” she squeaked, breathless over the way he watched her. She cleared her throat. “Charlie Jones.”
He held out his hand in the formal, time-honored tradition. “Harry Lonnigan.” Smiling, she stepped forward, shifted her wet jeans to one arm, and took his hand. With a mere glimpse of evil intent, Harry tugged her forward. He took her small bundle from her and dropped it to the floor. His hands lifted to cradle her face, she caught her breath, and then he kissed her.
HARRY COULDN’T believe the way she made him feel. It was a simple kiss, damm it, and heaven knew he’d kissed plenty of women in his time. And among those women, Charlie was likely the least proficient at it. So her lips were soft? So she smelled incredibly sweet?
She looked like a rumpled child in his shirt, the shoulders bagging almost to her elbows, the hem skimming her knees—very sexy knees actually, followed by shapely calves. He shook his head. She’d combed her hair straight back, evidently not the least interested in impressing him with her feminine attributes. She’d made no effort at all to make herself more appealing. Yet he already had an erection and he practically shook with lust. All because of a simple kiss.
It was so unexpected, he almost grinned.
That happened a lot with her; hell, he’d grinned more since first spotting her in that small grocery, all decked out like an adolescent thug, than he had in the past six months.
Beneath his palms, her skin warmed and she felt so incredibly silky, so vibrant, he wanted to devour her. He never devoured women! He was suave and controlled and applauded for his technique.
She had him so turned on, he couldn’t even remember his touted technique.
His thumbs stroked over her temple, her jaw. He kept the kiss easy, letting her lead, though he wanted badly to taste her, to slip his tongue into her mouth, to feel her tongue on his.
With a groan, he pulled back the tiniest bit and looked at her. Eyes almost closed, she swayed toward him, her pale, flushed skin in striking contrast to her glossy black hair and dark blue eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, and unable to help himself, he kissed her again, this time giving in to the urge to explore. He licked over her lips, and when she gasped, he slipped inside, coasting over her teeth, mating with her soft tongue.
He pulsed with need, he was so aroused.
Charlie’s hands opened on his naked shoulders. She moved against him, and he could feel her stiff little nipples, could feel the plumpness of her breasts, small, but very feminine and sweet. He started to lift a hand, to cup her, tease her and himself, and his honor came knocking, just barely nudging aside the need.
Unspoken invective filled his brain. He wanted so badly to feel her breasts, but…
Once he got started, he knew good and well it would be hours before he got his fill. He should be getting in touch with Dalton. He had no doubts the man would be worried, wondering what had transpired, whether or not Harry had been able to make any headway. He owed Dalton that much.
“Charlie.”
“Hmm…” She nuzzled his throat, took a small nip of his chin.
“Sweetheart, we need to talk.”
She blinked up at him, her look dreamy. “You called me sweetheart.”
Sighing, he said again, “We need to talk. Now.”
She stiffened, her gaze searching his. “Oh good grief. Please, don’t give me the old ‘you’re not that kind of guy’ routine.”
He took two steps back, and commended himself for accomplishing that much when he wanted so badly to feel her flush against him.
“I’m absolutely that kind of guy,” he assured her, staring down into her sweet face.