Just For Kicks. Susan Andersen
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stroked his hands down her soft nape, over her shoulders and down her back, following the long line of her spine to her round, firm ass. Gripping her through the thin, silky material, he bent his knees and yanked her to him—and his hard-on discovered a little piece of heaven in the soft, giving notch between her thighs.
But it wasn’t enough. He wanted his hands on the bare skin her diaphanous skirt had hinted at, and he began gathering fabric up by the handfuls, inching the garment up the backs of her thighs. Got to have some of this, his out-of-control testosterone insisted, and he wedged a thigh between hers and widened his stance, nudging her legs farther apart.
Got to have some of this now!
Nothing else mattered at the moment. Not the fact that she wasn’t a woman who fit into his master plan. Not the fact that they didn’t even like each other. Not Niklaus waiting for him next door. Not—
Oh, shit, Niklaus!
Damn, something did matter. The recollection of his nephew, who could come looking for him at any minute, splashed cold water all over the hot haze of lust that had made every other consideration seem incidental. Hell, he’d left Carly’s front door wide open when he’d followed her into her apartment, and it was only blind luck that no one had poked their head in to see what was going on.
Dropping her skirt back into place, he jerked his hands away from the tempting territory they’d roamed. He reached up to thread his fingers through her short hair and pull her head back.
She blinked unfocused eyes at him and licked her bottom lip. Then her lips, ruddy and swollen from his kisses, curled up in a sultry little smile and he groaned, his new resolve seriously threatened. He wanted to return that carnal smile, wanted to dive back in and pick up right where they’d left off.
But indulging the Jones wild streak wasn’t in his makeup—even if he had forgotten that fact in a moment of blistering arousal. He gave her a stern look. “I can’t do this.”
She returned a melting, slightly dazed smile that he felt clear to the pit of his stomach and rotated her pelvis against his erection. “Oh, honey,” she assured him. “You can.”
His hips pushed back at her until he caught himself and forced them to still, and he slid his fingers from her hair, gripping her shoulders instead to set her back a step.
The damn shirt pulled him up short again, but he shoved away from the wall so abruptly that it did the chore for him, tumbling her back a step. While she was still off balance, he hitched the shoulder seams of his abused shirt back into place. Then, heart pounding a savage beat, he stared at her.
What the hell had he done?
“No,” he finally said when she locked eyes with him. “I really can’t. You’re not part of my plan.”
Her eyes held confusion. “You have a plan that doesn’t allow for sex?”
“No.”
“No?” She took a tiny step forward. “Well, then…”
He put a hand up, warding her off. “I mean yes, I have a plan that doesn’t include unscheduled sex.” And it was high time he dragged it back front and center where it belonged.
“You schedule sex?” she said in disbelief. “What, between filing reports and busting card counters? My God. You are one seriously screwed-up individual.”
He’d always considered himself a seriously organized individual. Still, looking at the mussed, sexy blonde he was voluntarily walking away from, he wondered if she wasn’t onto something.
But, no. He knew what he wanted out of life, and this wasn’t it. Well, it was, but it would be a mistake he’d regret the moment satisfaction faded. And he had no room in his agenda for mistakes.
So he managed a negligent shrug and slapped his best emotionless expression on his face. “You may be right,” he said coolly as he headed for the door. “But at least I’ve got a plan.”
As he stepped out into the hallway, he heard a sound like steam escaping an overheated teakettle.
“Yeah, well, plan this, you jerk!” Carly yelled.
Closing the door behind him, Wolf thought it was just as well he couldn’t see the precise gesture that undoubtedly accompanied her directive.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CARLY FELT AS IF she were two seconds away from exploding. She took a jerky step to the right, then one to the left. Thrusting her hand through her damp hair, she whirled and took yet another indecisive step in the direction of the breakfast bar.
“Damn.” Stopping dead, she stared out through the sliders. But the attractive landscaping of the courtyard below her small lanai barely registered. Nor did her pets make more than a fleeting impression as they slunk out of their hiding places to vie for her attention now that she was alone again and no longer making any sudden moves.
Her skin felt two sizes too small, her body throbbed with a tight, achy, unsatiated arousal, and humiliation rode her like a monkey on an addict’s back. She didn’t know what on earth to do with herself. She couldn’t even take her contradictory jumble of emotions to Treena to sort out as she normally would. This was simply too personal, too…raw.
And that only made her feel worse, because she had no safety valve for this god-awful head of steam that Wolf had stoked in her.
Stoked to the boiling point, damn him, before strolling away and leaving her with no means of blowing it off.
“You bastard,” she whispered. It had knocked her for a loop when she’d opened the door and seen him standing there, looking completely different from the usual spit-shined, buttoned-down, pain-in-the-ass automaton she was accustomed to seeing. Gone had been the uptight, poker-faced Surveillance honcho, and in his place had stood an angry man who’d looked sort of savage and wild.
Which, of course, had called to her. Maybe her mother was right, maybe she did need therapy.
She rejected the idea out of hand. Because, please. The guy she more or less knew for his quality clothing—the same man who always looked so pulled together, right down to his coordinating ties, who she imagined must prop himself upright in a closet to sleep so as not to wrinkle his fine threads—had pulled a vanishing act.
In his place had stood a man not only sans the tie he seemed to consider de rigueur, but in a shirt he hadn’t even bothered to fasten. And the glimpse of his smooth, hard chest and rigid stomach muscles through the narrow opening, the sight of those long, muscular thighs, hair-dusted calves and big, narrow, naked feet, had frozen her in place for several heart-stopping seconds.
Even then, she’d been cool. And she would have continued to be cool, too…if only she hadn’t tripped. If only he hadn’t kissed her.
Dammit, he should have kept his lips to himself. Or at least had the decency to be a lousy kisser.
But he had done neither of those things. Oh, he was still a jerk, still the worst kind of control freak. Who the hell schedules their sexual encounters, for heaven’s sake? But Wolfgang Jones could kiss like nobody’s business, and no longer did she have the comfort of assuring herself he was a clueless, cold and passionless Mr. Robotics kind of guy.
She truly wished she did, because right this minute she’d rather eat grubs than admit anything good about him. And yet…
While the man definitely had some strange hang-ups, a lack of passion wasn’t one of them. There had been nothing cold about his mouth on hers. Nothing remotely chilly about the body she’d been pressed against. Damn, he’d pumped out heat like a coal-burning furnace. And Lord have mercy, those hands!
His fingers had been long and firm and oh-so-hot on her butt, and they sure as hell hadn’t been the least bit hesitant about rocking her against his erection—which had been even longer, firmer…hotter. It had been so long since she’d experienced any of that sweet man-woman friction, and it had felt so good.