Wet and Reckless (Private Pleasures 4)

Or she might, he corrected, when she aimed an impatient look at him. “Where?”

He hit a button on his key, and his truck beeped from its parking slot a few yards down in the crowded lot. She took off toward the vehicle, but his longer strides gave him the advantage. While he held the passenger door open and helped her into the truck, he tried not to get caught up in her honeysuckle scent. He was already redefining the term “suit porn” beneath his jacket, which meant as much as he longed to tear the sweltering thing off before he climbed behind the wheel, he couldn’t.

Her thank-you should have chilled his temperature a few degrees, but his perverted mind replayed the two little words in a throaty whisper over a soundtrack of groaning bedsprings. He tugged the knot in his tie to loosen it and put the air on full blast.

Even so, the short drive to their house reminded him the path to hell was paved with good intentions. She needed a ride, and he was the obvious choice, but stepping up with the assist brought self-torture to a new level. Having her beside him in the truck reminded him of the last time they’d occupied this particular space. He never took his eyes off the road, but every shift of her legs, every restless fidget, claimed his attention until he was so fucking attuned to her, he accidentally scraped his tires on the curb while pulling up in front of the house.

“I’ll wait.” That would be the smart move.

“Don’t be crazy. It’s a million degrees out here, and it’s going to take me a few minutes to change. Come inside. Your virtue’s safe. I promise not to jump you again. Ever.” With that guarantee issued, she got out of the truck and headed toward the house.

He got out as well, and followed, because she had a point. It was hotter than Kentucky-fried hell, as Junior would say, and he couldn’t sit there for ten minutes with the engine idling and the air on full blast. Going upstairs to his place to wait only wasted more time. He slowed as they approached her door, expecting her to dig out her keys and unlock it, but she simply shoved her way through, putting her shoulder into the effort because the humidity-swollen wood stuck.

By the time he reconnected the blown wire between his brain and his mouth, she was halfway to her bedroom, blithely unaware she’d violated one of the most fundamental rules of personal safety.

“Are you kidding me?”

Now she paused and glanced back at him. “About what?”

“You leave your door unlocked?”

Her eye roll had him praying for patience. “I guess I did.” A careless toss sent her purse onto the compact sofa. “Is that a crime, officer?”

“It’s a sure-fire way of letting me know you’re completely insane.”

“Yeah. I’m the crazy one, living like I don’t expect old Mr. Cranston across the street to break in and clean me out. Or, no, wait. Maybe Jimmy the mailman wants to lie in wait and murder me in my sleep. What with the rampant crime in Bluelick, you can never relax your guard. Take a load off, West.” She turned and continued down the hall, her fingers busy on her blouse buttons before she disappeared from view.

“Don’t invite trouble.” He pulled the front door shut then walked over to the sofa and sat. And tried not to visualize her stripping in the next room.

“I have a built-in crime deterrent,” she called from the bedroom. “Turns out a cop lives upstairs.”

“And he doesn’t appreciate having a security issue on the premises. Lock your door, Reckless.” All he heard in response was the rasp of a zipper. Immediately, the only thing he could think about were ordinary black pants sliding down extraordinary legs. Desperate for a distraction, he took in his surroundings, which were…chaotic. For a woman who’d arrived in town with all her belongings stuffed into a duffel bag, she’d certainly expanded to fill the apartment. A zebra-striped shoulder bag slouched on the kitchen counter, belching out sunglasses, a pack of

gum, and a scatter of change. A small pile of bracelets decorated the coffee table in front of him, next to a collection of nail polish. Her red and gold robe draped the arm of the sofa. A new vision filled his mind, of Roxy sitting in the exact spot he currently occupied, wearing nothing but the robe and an expression of concentration as she painted her toenails. Dammit. He unbuttoned his jacket and carefully adjusted himself. No relief. Sighing, he let his head sink back against the cushion and closed his eyes.

She muttered something he didn’t catch and banged around in her room. He pictured her digging through a closet. Naked. “Yes, West,” he prompted. “I promise I’ll lock my door.”

“Were you born this bossy, or did you grow into it?” she called back in the slightly out-of-breath voice of someone tugging something on as she spoke.

He raised his head. “Bossy?” She made him sound like cranky six-year-old.

“Have you heard yourself?” Her voice dropped to a Clint Eastwood–style grumble. “No smoking. Lock your door. Make my day.”

She strode into the room, stopped in front of him, and propped her hands on her hips. “Would it kill you, just once, to say something pleasant to me instead of barking orders and biting my head off?”

Challenge probably lit her eyes laser bright, but he couldn’t verify because he couldn’t tear his attention off her outfit. The scant red remnant of a dress…scarf…whatever it was looked like one giant V-neck in eminent danger of sliding off her shoulders and landing in a puddle around her lethal silver sandals.

“What the hell are you wearing? You’re one shrug away from a wardrobe malfunction of epic proportions.”

She sighed and crossed her arms. “Try again.”

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose until white bloomed at the edges of the darkness. Who the fuck had appointed him fashion police? Nobody. Especially not Roxy, who had requested his opinion precisely zero times. She was 100 percent comfortable in her own skin, which was admirable, and she could—correction—should wear whatever pleased her. The fact that her choices usually left him burning to tear every stitch off her cock-enslaving body was neither here nor there.

He dropped his hand and blinked her into focus. She’d taken her hair out of the braid. It flowed around her shoulders in sexy waves, the red streaks playing off the cherry-colored dress. “It’s nice of you to help Junior and Lou Ann.”

Her rigid stance relaxed a degree, but she shrugged the observation away. “It’s no problem. Anyone would.”

“But not just anyone could. They lucked out with you.”