Can't Fight This Feeling (17 page)

The carton hit the ground with a squelch and a splash.

Angelica licked the heavy tip of his penis. Her fingers gripped the denim-covered muscles of his thighs and for a moment she thought of the techniques taught by boarding-school dorm mates who spoke in stupid terms of lollipops and carrots. Then she closed her eyes and learned all she didn’t know by tactile means—touch, taste, scent.

So male.

One moment she was running her cheek against the thick shaft and the next she was tumbled to the ground. His mouth caught hers and their next kiss was hot and frantic.

Maybe he was as scared as she was. It must be hell to be with a woman who went from wanton to weird in the space of a moment.

“Here,” he murmured against her lips. “You’re right here with me.”

Angelica stayed sure of that by keeping her eyes open and it added another sensual edge to each moment. She saw the gold tips of his hair as he dipped his head once again to her breasts. Rubbing her chin against the soft brush of it, she watched her hand trail across the powerful breadth of his shoulders.

When he drew her nipple into his mouth, she arched up, pushing more of her flesh into the pleasure and heat. His gaze shot toward hers, the gray now silver fire.

He was crouched over her as he moved between her breasts. She thought hazily that he was leery of putting too much of his weight on her. The consideration pierced her heart and she felt a hot tear trail from the corner of her eye to her temple.

“Baby,” he whispered, lifting his head.

But she didn’t want to stop, so she pushed on his shoulders and took him to the ground. Then she was over him, the kisser, the aggressor, the dominant position giving her the confidence she needed to proceed.

He grunted when she, flying high on lust, bit his pectoral muscle. She almost apologized, until she glanced up and saw the look on his face—the skin pulled taught over his sharp features as he struggled for control—and when her knee bent and brushed the heavy bulge of his sex, he sucked in a sharp breath.

His hand clutched the back of her head. “If you’re wondering, you can bite me all you want.”

Be shameless!
she thought, recalling Glory’s advice.

Angelica grinned at Brett, a gleeful smile because she finally felt free to be exactly that—and
do
all she wanted.

She suspected it was going to better than painting walls the color of her own choosing.

Instead of biting again, though, she moved up to baby kiss his bottom lip, and then the edge of his cheekbone. Her tongue followed his facial scars, sliding across the bridge of his nose and then tracing the jagged line that went through his eyebrow and into his hair.

“Frankenstein’s monster,” he murmured.

Surprised, she kneeled up to look into his eyes. “No monster,” she said. “Those only make you more...man.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up and his hand reached up to caress her breast. He held it in the cup of his palm and his thumb gently brushed the tip. Her belly tightened; between her legs she felt heated and swollen. She squirmed, automatically trying to ease the pressure by moving against the denim of her jeans.

Brett smiled a smile that was slow and lazy. Her breathing stuttered in her lungs as his hand moved from her breast to her belly button. One rough fingertip drew circles there. “You need something?”

Her face burned and she was keenly aware of her naked torso—and the rest of her that was covered. She sneaked a look at his lap, where he was still fully erect, his penis framed by the open edges of his jeans.

She redirected her gaze to his face to see the laziness was gone. He was breathing hard, his beautiful chest rising and falling and when their eyes met, his loitering finger drew down the millimeters to the button of her jeans. His fingernail bumped over its upraised design as he toyed there.

She felt weak with desire, hungry, hollowed out. A vessel that was empty and needed affection, touch,
him
to feel full. Longing came to the surface of her skin in the guise of chill bumps, spreading everywhere.

“You’re cold,” he said, softly.

There was the click of the heater automatically turning on again, the renewed warmth nothing compared to the fire that was consuming her from the inside. “I’m not cold at all,” she whispered.

“What do we do next, Angelica?” He was studying her with a seriousness she did not like.

“I want to play.”
Nothing wrong with fun and messy.
And with those words echoing in her head, she reached for the discarded carton of melted ice cream. With a loony smile stretching her mouth, she dumped the remaining contents onto his chest.

His eyes widened and he jackknifed, sitting straight. “Why you—”

Angelica didn’t hear the rest of it because she ran. Giggles rose in her throat like hiccups as she fled toward her room, intention unformed. But he caught her before she reached the safe haven and when he pulled her around she was laughing and breathless.

Then he was kissing her again, his tongue in her mouth, their torsos fused by sticky ice cream. She writhed, and one of his big hands clamped on her bottom.

The pressure of his fingers made her wiggle back and she moaned, caught between his hold and his hard body.
God
, she thought, head reeling.
This is so good.
There was promise in each kiss, another step toward splendor that she’d never reached with any man.

He lifted his head, his gaze lazy, his expression aroused. “I need a shower,” he murmured.

“Oh.” So much for splendor. Hopes dashed, she looked away.

“You need a shower,” he continued, and tugged her in the direction of the bathroom.

“Brett—”

“If you liked ice cream, wait until you see what I can do with soap,” he said, and suddenly she was giddy again, thinking of him naked and wet. With his palm on her bottom, he urged her into the small tiled room.

He turned on the water and as the ensuing steam heated up the room, he undressed her, crouching low to push her jeans and panties from her legs. Any embarrassment she felt fled when he pressed a string of kisses between her hip bones. Then he helped her into the enclosure and followed in moments.

They washed the ice cream residue from each other’s body with slow, slick hands. The experience was so new to her...sharing a shower, trading touches, kissing under the spray like kissing in the rain, that there was no way the ugliness from her past could find an opening in the novelty and intrude.

When a slippery hand brushed between her thighs, her legs quivered. She let him explore there, holding tight to his shoulders as he open her furled flesh. It parted for him easily, already swollen and slick with its own moisture. He made a satisfied noise of discovery, and she almost released another giddy laugh.

But then his finger slid inside and she could only shudder and press her cheek to his shoulder. His thumb brushed her clitoris, swirling and nudging and then caressing with short, tender strokes. She gasped and her muscles clenched around the delicious intrusion of a second finger.

He groaned and tucked his head close to hers. His other hand drifted from her bottom, to her ribs, to her breast and she jerked as his fingers plucked at her nipple.

Pressure was building. She knew what this was, but no man had ever given this to her and she tightened her hold on him, as if to make sure the pleasure wouldn’t slip away. Her hips tilted as his hand moved.

“Angelica,” he said.

She looked up. Then his mouth was on hers and his tongue surged inside with the same rhythm of his fingers. It was possessive and the spray rained down with enough force on her supersensitized skin that it added tiny pricks of almost-pain that only served to keenly edge the pleasure that grew and grew and grew...

Until it burst, rippling through her body in wave after wave of sharp, bright joy. It almost hurt, the goodness was so deeply sweet. Her fingers tightened on him as he stroked every bit of bliss from her. Then his hand slowed and gentled, drawing out the last twitch.

As the thrill abated, awkwardness closed in. Shy, she tried shuffling back, but he slid his arms around her, his shaft hard and heavy at the hollow where her hip met her belly.

It was his turn, she thought, suddenly anxious. She wasn’t any more practiced in satisfying a man than she was in being satisfied by one. But Brett had allayed her fears and made her feel glorious. How could she stop short of returning the favor?

But she wondered about doing that for a man like Brett, who was both virile and experienced. Maybe she would be all groping hands and rubbery lips to
him
. Her body stiffened and the nervous beat of her heart seemed to echo off the tiled walls. Maybe—

“Angel face.” Brett rubbed his rough-skinned palms up and down her back. “What’s the matter?”

She shook her head. Then, desperate to do the right thing, she turned up her mouth to press it against his throat. His pulse beat wildly beneath her lips, boosting her confidence. Her hands tugged on his head, drawing it down, and she threw herself into the kiss.

She felt his big body shake against hers. “Just a second,” he said, amusement in his voice as he eased away. “The water’s turning cold.”

The faucet squeaked as he reached behind and turned it off. It sounded as rusty as her sexual skills and she felt stupid and clumsy all over again. Hopping out of the enclosure, she wrapped a bath towel around herself. Brett threw another over her wet head, gave it an affectionate rub, then wrapped a third length of fabric around his hips.

He strode from the room.

Angelica had no idea what to do now. His clothes were strewn at her feet, but he could very well head back to his cabin without them. It wasn’t as if anyone would see.

As a matter of fact, if he left now, maybe
she
could pretend the whole event had never happened. That might be good. That there was still residual throbbing in intimate places...it would abate by morning.

Surely.

Then she wouldn’t have to remember that it had been a one-sided performance that had ended in a cold shower for him. She put her face in her hands.
Oh, God.
How humiliating.

She stood on the bath mat for a long time. Then, resigned, she finished squeezing water from her hair, hung up that towel and dragged a comb through her tangles. Stuck in her misery, she didn’t notice any sounds or activity in her bungalow until she heard Brett call her name.

She froze. He was still here? It had been less than ten minutes since she’d presumed he’d left, but was he back now? Or if not, what had he been doing?

Wary, she padded down the hall in her bare feet, her towel still wrapped closely around her, covering her from her armpits to her knees. What he wanted from her, she couldn’t imagine.

What she found...well, she could never have imagined that either.

Flames were crackling in the living room fireplace. Still in his own towel, Brett appeared to have created a double bed–sized pallet before it. Blankets were stacked. A couple of extralarge beach towels were spread over the padding.

There was wicked mischief in his eyes again as he held out his hand to her. She responded as she always did to him. As if her body was designed to be as close to his as possible. Moving forward, she felt another surge of lust...or was it longing? Just moments ago she’d felt abandoned and alone, her feet on the cold tile.

Now she was walking toward heat and promise.

As she drew nearer, she noted the foil packets stacked by the makeshift bed. Then her gaze caught on the squeeze bottle warming on the hearth. Its contents glinted gold in the firelight. Her glance shifted back to Brett.

He smiled. “This time it’s caramel sauce,” he said. “Ready for more play?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

B
RETT
WOKE
UP
before first light, as he always did. He lay in Angelica’s warm bed with his eyes closed, gathering himself for what needed to be done first thing: make clear to her they’d shared nothing more than a one-night stand.

He was no good for her.

Well, he’d been good
to
her—to her body, at least. But nothing they’d done the night before had addressed her issues as his sister Shay had suggested he do. And Angelica had issues—with trust, men, sex or some combination of the three—yet instead of talking with her, learning what was going on inside that beautiful head of hers, he’d ducked all the complicated stuff. Using distraction and that carnal combustibility between them, he’d led her into sexual games.

Fun times.

But not what she needed. He wasn’t the kind of man she needed. That guy would be willing to delve into her heart and soul. Unlike Brett, he’d have his own generous heart and a willing soul he’d be happy to lay bare to her.

Bracing himself to tackle the situation immediately, he opened his eyes, directing his gaze to the other pillow.

It was empty.

Frowning, he glanced through the open bedroom door to the bathroom across the hall. It was unoccupied. So where was she?

He was the earliest riser he knew.

It took only moments to draw on his clothes—grimacing at the dried ice cream stains. On stocking feet, he moved toward the front of the house. He found her in the kitchen, staring at the contents of her open refrigerator.

For a moment he allowed himself to merely gaze upon her. It was a hardware-store day, he decided, judging by the nice jeans she was wearing with boots. The denim hugged her generous ass, the one he’d resisted biting the night before, though the temptation had been great.

Aware that he’d spooked her before by taking the dominant position, he’d decided his best course lay in avoiding darkness, the bedroom, him on top. She’d responded with enthusiasm to firelight and caramel sauce and his encouragement to take the lead. With her on her knees over him, he’d had a delightful view of her bouncing breasts. His hands had been free to roam, his caresses nudging her toward nirvana.

He’d followed right after—and it had nearly blown his mind.

Perhaps she heard his thoughts because she whirled now, her hand going to her throat. That killer face of hers, lush of lips and lash, nearly arrested his heart.

What a beauty.

A smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Good morning! How are you? Did you sleep well?” Then her mouth turned down and she gave him an apologetic look. “I’ve been told I’m too terribly cheerful first thing in the morning.”

Good God, she was, not that he’d say so. “Who the hell would tell you that?”

She shrugged. “Dorm mates. My dad.”

“Screw ’em,” he said, stepping forward. “And a good morning back at you.” His steps halted, as he recalled what he’d promised to do. Set the boundaries. Draw the lines. Make a box around the hours of their entwined bodies. Explain that last night was last night and today they were moving on...separately.

Probably a “good morning” was a bad entrée into that discussion.

He opened his mouth to begin again, but she beat him to it. “I don’t have anything here for breakfast,” she said. “I’m out of everything.”

“No problem.” He didn’t want to stay for a meal. His intent was to spit out what needed to be said and then head next door to dress for the rest of his day.

She yanked on the hem of the sweater she was wearing. It was the same warm, peachy-gold as the flesh of her belly. The nervous gesture pulled the knit fabric closer to her breasts and he remembered her response as he caressed them, tongued them, pinched them. He sucked in a harsh breath, his cock starting to harden.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Me...what?” He crossed his arms over his chest in hopes her innocent gaze would stop there.

“Do you have breakfast stuff at your place?”

“I—” No. He could not have her over there, bustling in his kitchen so they’d bump elbows and brush hips while making a meal together. And he couldn’t leave her flat, without the most important meal of the day, right after telling her she’d been a fine lay but now that he’d had her he was done.

Making it clear their interlude was over was the right thing to do, but he couldn’t do it—the moment felt wrong.

Not here, where she might cry or something. Not here, when she didn’t even have a piece of toast to throw at his head.

“Get ready,” he said, his voice gruff. “I’ll follow you into town in fifteen minutes. Buy you breakfast at Oscar’s.”

Walking to his place in the crisp morning air, he cursed himself for not getting right to it.
Shit.
But he’d never been one for kicking kittens.

Thirty minutes later, he decided that a field trip to Oscar’s hadn’t been a better move. The place was packed. He stood in line for their coffees and breakfast sandwiches, while she found two seats across from each other in the center of one of the long picnic tables in the place.

Anything he had to say would not be private.

As he strolled up to her, beverages in hand, she glanced up. Her face had a becoming flush—as if she needed any further enhancement to her looks—that he suddenly realized might very well be residual beard burn.

The marks he’d left shouldn’t send a surge of satisfaction through him.

She smiled as she took her latte and indicated the couple sitting beside her. “You know George and Nan, right?”

Of course he knew George and Nan. He’d known them his entire life. The only question was, how did she know George and Nan? Angelica was quite familiar with the pair, that was clear, because she chattered to them about everything under the sun in between sips of her drink. They gazed on her with indulgent expressions and sent a couple of meaningful glances his way.

“You know,” Nan told Angelica when she paused for a breath. “We never thought Brett would settle down.”

“Umm.” Angelica slid him a sideways look.

“What a busy tyke he was. Never a wild boy, you know, but not one to keep still. Then he went into the army and received a medal on his very first day in Afghanistan—it was all over the local paper. We were so proud of him.”

Aware Angelica’s eyes were on him again, Brett signaled the server who came with their breakfast trays and pretended he didn’t hear Nan’s prattle. He’d return the fucking medal if it would allow him to expel the memory of that day from his brain.

“He’s always had a different girl on his arm, that’s for sure.” Nan sent him a look. “But still such a good man—and even playboys settle down, you know.”

That’s when he caught on. Straightening in his seat, he stared at the older woman. Mountain people were supposed to be suspicious of rich flatlanders like Angelica. The locals here weren’t impressed with big city wealth and big city baubles. Christ, the bodacious brunette sitting across from him still drove the ridiculous convertible that would be sure to strand her when winter arrived in a few short weeks.

But Nan was trying to sell Angelica on him!

“Then there was the hurricane relief effort...” Nan started.

Oh, no. He wasn’t going to sit still for this, Brett thought. He’d get up, walk back to his truck, get on with his day.

Without getting things straight with his night-before lover.

Shit!

Still, he was not going to listen to anyone making him out to be a hero while describing the time in his life that had proved him to be a total fool. He shoved up from the bench, preparing to vault to his feet.

At the same time, George leaned forward. Under the cover of his wife’s continuing natter he said, “There was another break-in last night.”

Brett froze. Then he brushed a hand over his hair. “Not again.”

“Yep. Don’t know any details, but heard about it at the gas station. What do you think is going on?”

Uneasy, Brett shifted in his seat. “I don’t know.”

“Someone told me they thought it could be Lewis.”

“Lewis our postman?” Brett frowned, glancing about the room. Any number of people could potentially be the culprit, actually. There was the president of the historical society having coffee with the principal of the high school. It could be either of them, right? “It’s not Lewis.”

“Yeah, I believe you, Brett.” George lowered his voice. “But what about that Harris boy? The one that was dealing drugs last spring.”

Brett rubbed his temple. “I don’t like all this doubting of our community members. That was just a rumor about Ian Harris.”

“In any case, we gotta do something about the situation,” George said. “See what you can find out, will you, Brett?” Then he glanced at his wife. “C’mon, Nan. You can talk to Angelica another time. The grandkids are expecting a ride to school.”

As the older couple headed for the exit, Brett framed his coffee with his elbows and scraped his face with his hands. He didn’t like trouble in his town, in his beloved mountains.

“What’s the matter?”

“What?” He glanced up, taking in the line of concern between Angelica’s brows. “Oh. Nothing.”

“Not nothing. Did I hear George say there was another robbery?”

“It’s true,” a male voice put in.

They both looked up to see Vaughn Elliott standing nearby, holding his own to-go cup.

“Separate from the incident at the historical society?” Angelica asked. “Did you know about that, Vaughn?”

“An email from the society president landed in my inbox. But nothing was stolen besides Piney.”

“Poor Piney,” Angelica said, sighing.

“He’ll probably be returned to the front doorstep once Homecoming weekend is over.” Brett glanced back to the other man. “What do you know, Vaughn?”

“You’re aware I’m a sheriff’s department volunteer—”

“Yes,” Brett and Angelica said together.

He huffed. “The consensus is that the heist of Piney is completely separate from the other goings-on. Just kids bent on a prank.”

Brett frowned. “They scared Angelica...so not that funny.”

“But you’re okay now, doll, right?” He propped one expensive boot on the bench beside Angelica.

He likely checked his reflection hourly in the buffed leather, Brett thought sourly. “She’s fine,” he said, his tone cool.

“She’s even still got her tongue,” Angelica added, with pseudobrightness.

He shot her a look. In response, she arched an eyebrow, and silent messages transferred between them.

Brett:
He’s a jerk.

Angelica:
I know that, but I can speak for myself.

Shrugging, he looked away, regretting the moment of personal communication. He was supposed to be cutting ties with her, not encouraging further intimacy. “Thanks for the intel, Vaughn,” he said to hurry the man on. Once rid of him, Brett would launch into his speech. It would be some blend of “It’s me, not you” and “I don’t do strings.”

Or maybe, simpler, cleaner, would be the truth.

Whatever the hell that was.

His head throbbed, and he glanced again at the sheriff’s volunteer who seemed to be lingering. “Is there something else?”

Vaughn leaned over his bent knee. “I think you should know the word that’s going around.”

Brett rubbed at his temple again. More fruit from the mountain grapevine. It was a flourishing, powerful thing, which was why he’d been so alarmed at Nan trying to talk him up to Angelica. Fifteen more minutes in her presence and there’d be rumors they were already Vegas-married with triplets on the way. “What word is that?”

Vaughn lowered his voice. “Maybe the person responsible is that guy,” he said, nodding toward a solo man sitting a few tables away. “The newcomer.”

Brett didn’t have a clue. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“He’s come into the hardware store a couple of times,” Angelica said, sliding a look his way. “Then he disappeared for a while and now he’s back again—fiercely pursuing Glory.”

The man was in work clothes that were well-worn and spattered with stains. “It’s not a crime to come and go,” Brett said. “Or to be a new arrival.”

Though, again, it wasn’t uncommon for the mountain people to mistrust the new guy. As a matter of fact, the only person who seemed to have been adopted into the region in a quick and easy fashion was Angelica, with her two local jobs, her local friends, and her place on the local historical committee.

Since the summer, even before her financial disaster, she’d been weaving herself into their fabric, he realized. An uncomfortable thought because it meant he might be dodging her beyond the first snow—though not unless she replaced that impractical vehicle of hers. Ultimately, however, he was convinced she’d go.

“There’s another theory floating around, as well,” Vaughn said.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Mac.”

Brett went cold, even as he saw Angelica bristle. Without thinking, he reached over and placed his hand over hers. “What about Mac?” he asked Vaughn, his voice careful.