Texas! Lucky

He set his beer on a shelf in the bookcase and, in two strides, came even with her. His hands bracketed her shoulders, lifting her slightly up and forward. "What else am I supposed to think, huh? Why'd you hightail it out of that motel room?"

"Because I was disgusted."

He was taken aback by her answer. No woman had ever said that to him. "Disgusted? With me?"

"With myself," she lashed out. "With the situation. I didn't want to hash through it again. If you make a habit of sleeping with women you don't know, I'm sure you can understand morning-after awkwardness."

Gnawing on his inner cheek, he assimilated what she'd said and apparently agreed with her. Then, taking another tack, he asked, "Why did you pull that disappearing act this afternoon?"

"Because we had nothing more to talk about."

"Wrong."

"Right."

"Are you going to ask me to spend the night tonight?"

"No!" she said, aghast.

"Then we've got something more to talk about."

"I think that's what's really bothering you," she said heatedly. "You're certain that every woman you meet is panting to go to bed with you. Well, take a good look at the exception, Mr. Tyler. You're only hounding me because I walked out on you and not the other way around. Your ego has been stung."

"Maybe," he admitted grudgingly. "Partially."

"Nurse it someplace else, with someone else. I don't want to see you again. Haven't I made that plain enough?"

"Oh yeah. You've made it plain. But you haven't convinced me, Devon. You haven't even convinced yourself."

He drew her forward with such force that the towel slipped from her head and her hair tumbled out of it. His mouth was damp and demanding as it settled against her lips.

Far from resenting his aggressiveness, she responded to it, reveling in his potency and his blatant hunger for her. Instead of pulling away, as her mind dictated that she should, she treated herself to the heat and urgency of his kisses.

His hands slid beneath her top to splay open across her back and hold her closer to him. She loved his touch on her skin and longed to take the same kind of liberties with him. He was tough, all sinew and muscle. Her curves molded pliantly to his manliness. She loved the rasp of his stubble against her face, the taste of his mouth, the scent of his skin. She was starved for his masculinity.

When he raised the hem of her top, she felt the cold, exciting bite of his metal belt buckle against her bare midriff. Then his hands moved over her breasts—reshaping, stroking, teasing, then gratifying by drawing his thumbs across her nipples.

"Devon," he murmured roughly when he felt their beading reaction through the silk cup of her bra. "Why are you making this so hard?"

She yanked herself away from him, backing up as though he represented something terrifying, which he did. Oddly enough, he was smiling.

"I didn't mean that in a crude or lewd way. I meant 'hard' as in difficult."

"I know what you meant," she said breathlessly, unable to find her full voice. "It's not only difficult, it's impossible. I told you that earlier. Now, please go, and don't bother me again."

"You're bothered all right."

She followed his gaze down to her swollen breasts, defined so well against the soft cloth of her pullover. She would be lying to herself as well as to him to deny that she desired him. On a near-sob she said, "Please go."

"Devon, forget how and where we met. Think only about how it was when we woke up in bed together and turned to each other."

She closed her hands over her ears. "I can't."

"Why?" He forced her hands back down to her sides. "Why, when it was so damn good, won't you let yourself remember?"

"I don't owe you any explanations."

"The hell you don't," he said, his voice low and fierce. "The kiss you just gave me makes a lie out of everything you're saying. You're hungry for me. As hungry as I am for you. I believe that entitles me to an explanation."