Noticing her inquisitiveness his lips bowed upward. “Don’t be making fun of my chrome trim.”
“I’m not,” she managed. Her breath wobbled before unloading another long tired breath.
Entering the cabin, he kicked out of his boots, shimmied the slickers from her feet, set the pup on the floor, and hooked the handle of the umbrella on an antler. All the while cradling her in his strong arms. He padded across the hardwood floor in his stocking feet, dropping her in front of a roaring fire.
“Get warm. I’ll get you some dry clothes.” He paused adding, “Will you please stop running off in the rain? You’re gonna get sick out there. Plus, you’re making me feel like a damn stalker staring out the window with binoculars.”
Rubbing her hands together, she nodded an acknowledgement. Turning her back to the fire, she stuck her bum out, inching closer to the glowing flames. Carrie Ann lifting one foot then the other, slowly thawing her toes, bringing a dull stinging sensation to the tips.
Summer rounded the corner appearing cozy and dry in pair of ocean blue twill pants and a fresh tee. The elastic waistband hung from his hips, drawstring undone and hanging from the front like an untied shoe-string. His long tan feet remained soundless, making his way toward her with a stack of dry clothes. The burning glow of the fire highlighted him in an exquisite contrast of colors.
A devilish grin flicked the corner of his mouth catching sight of her bent over in front of the fireplace. The bright white smile, warmed her all the way to the core.
“Here you go.”
“These are yours. Did I bring any comfy clothes from my place?”
“You were more interested in bringing your lingerie.”
His eyes smothered in amusement. Witnessing a tremor of laughter jump in his chest, she could feel the color draining from her cheeks. His sneer ignited to a full blown haughty Summer smile. She knew he was fighting back a smart-ass remark. An image of her drawer popped into her head. Mr. Fucking Perfect.
“Fuck. Fuckity-fuck.” Her grumble nearly inaudible. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Don’t you dare say one damn thing right now. I mean it, Summer.”
“Not saying a word,” he assured, raising the flat of his hands in a show of surrender. He didn’t have to. His smug obnoxious grin said it all. “I’ll make some coffee. You can change right here in front of the fire if you want.”
Carrie Ann held her tongue, watching him disappear into the kitchen. Shedding her wet clothing, she slipped into the oversized flannel shirt and boxer briefs. She folded the loose waistband a few times, grumbling under her breath, “Seriously? I’ve gotta wear his boxers?”
“You need some help in there?” he called out.
“No! I don’t need any help.”
This prompted a loud laugh from the kitchen. Carrie Ann settled into the over-sized club chair, wrapping herself in the plaid camp-style throw draped over the back. Noticing a narrow built-in bookcase in the corner, she leaned over the arm of the chair, skimming through the selection of murder mysteries and western romances, searching for something to spark her interest. The well-worn pages of western romance would have to do. She twisted the toggle on the cast-iron floor lamp and snuggled into the warm leather.
Somewhere into the second chapter, Summer returned with a dark wooden serving tray. His gaze lingered over her toes before roving up her exposed leg as he set the tray on the ottoman beside her feet. Peering over the pages, she fixated on the way his shirt pulled snug over the natural flex of his muscle. She felt a low pang knock at the vacancy between her thighs making her toes curl.
“I figured you’d be hungry.” The appetite burning in his eyes had nothing to do with the food.
Edging forward in her seat, Carrie Ann caught a whiff of coffee and some sort of soup. Two deep red bowls were topped with diced avocados, tortilla strips, and a wedge of lime. Unable to mask her surprise, she questioned, “This smells delicious. Since when did you learn to cook?”
“As much as I’d love to impress you right now I have to admit I still don’t cook.” He smiled. “I have a personal chef. He prepared all kinds of meals, so I can stock the freezer. This is one of my favorites. Grilled chicken tortilla soup with Tequila crema.”
Summer squeezed the fresh lime over his bowl, grabbed a large spoon and lowered into the love seat beside her chair. Sharing the ottoman, he plopped his feet beside hers and went to work on his soup. Carrie Ann followed his lead. Ladling a spoonful, she blew on the broth, testing its heat with a careful sip. Sounds of appreciation hummed from her throat, devouring the spicy goodness.
Summer gingerly caught her big toe between two of his, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“We kissed,” he announced casually.
“What?” she sputtered, choking on a chip.
“I said, we kissed. Technically it might’ve been considered mauling. You were pretty rough. Left a mark.” The tip of his tongue flicked a spot on his bottom lip. Summer’s eyes bore into hers for a full five seconds before returning them to his soup.
She could feel the blood leaching to her face. Carrie Ann opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. The longer she stalled, the more obnoxious his grin grew. Her nerves unraveled in laborious huffs bordering on grunts.
“I don’t remember,” she groaned defensively.
“I do.” Placing his empty bowl on the tray, he raised to his feet. “You cried too.”
“I cried?”
“Umm hmm.”
Alarm bells sounded off, riddling her brain with warning. But before reason had a chance to sink in, she blurted, “Why was I crying?”
Her eyes widened watching a full blown cocky mother fucking Summer smile grow to the size of ginormous. He’d set the trap and she stepped right smack into the middle of it.
Leaning forward, he rested his palms on either arm of her chair. Muscles in his arms thickened and played, holding his weight above her. “You were very upset with me because I refused to let you give me a blow job. If you want the verbatim…you were a bit dejected when I wouldn’t let you ‘suck my cock’.”
Denial tweaked every tiny muscle in her face, screwing it tight. She never used that word. Every time she tried, it brought on an onslaught of giggles. Talking dirty had always been impossible for her, preferring to use the terms I want to taste you or going down.
Attempting to will it true, she mustered an insistent tone. “I. Did. Not.”
Determination rolled off him in waves. He’d been far too patient waiting this long to get whatever happened that night off his chest. There was no place to hide. She sat tall and squared her shoulders. His amber eyes turned hazy as they drifted to her lips.
“I actually felt sorry for myself. You have no idea how hard it was for me.” His voice faded to an achy rasp. Summer’s eyes rolled back. “Telling you no, physically fucking pained me. My heart hurts. My dick’s ready to explode. We kissed and held each other. You said things to me that I’ve dreamt of hearing for ten long years. And then Christ, Carrie Ann, when I realized you’d probably been drugged there was no way I could let it go any further. You cried, I mean really cried, when I told you no. You were so mad and upset…and then…”
The pounding of her heart hammered in her eardrums. She squirmed, molding further into the cushion, bracing for the worst. Summer eased closer, two feet from her face. The vein in his neck, quickening with his pulse. Part of her wanted to sweep the whole incident under a big, gigantic rug. Unfortunately, part of her was dying to know what happened. And worse yet, a sensation of regret gathered in her chest, frustrated by the fact they’d kissed and she’d missed out on it. The man was a seriously good kisser. Face holding, hair gripper, all-consuming, cage rattling, heart soaring to the sky, kind of kisser. No, no, no! She considered bitch-slapping herself to knock the reality back into her senses.