One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(32)

I snort. “Does your brain hurt from that analysis?”

“Yes, wise-ass, it does.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Now tell me what you want to drink.”

“Still waiting for you to tell me what you have.”

“Ah. Right.” An adorable hint of red creeps up his collar. He turns away quickly so I won’t see the blush, pulling open the fridge to look inside. “I have… beer. Beer. And, last but not least… more beer.”

“Such variety. How ever will I choose?”

He grabs two Harpoon IPAs, pops off their caps, and crosses back to hand one to me. The glass is cool against my fingers as they close around the neck. I feel Parker watching as I take a long draw from the mouth of the bottle.

“You’re staring again,” I point out as soon as I’ve swallowed.

He sips his beer and flops down next to me — a little closer, this time. Our arms brush every time I raise the bottle to my lips.

I don’t move away; neither does he. We just sit there for a while, sipping our beers, and I’m shocked to find I’m totally comfortable in a way I rarely manage around most strangers.

It’s not easy for me to let my walls down. I absolutely hate when people demand intimacy they haven’t earned. But Parker doesn’t demand anything. He doesn’t ask invasive questions, or pester me. In fact, since the moment we met, he’s just let me be… me.

“How are your legs?” he asks, a knowing look on his face.

My thighs press together of their own accord and my features twist into a grimace. Truthfully, they’re killing me. Just staying vertical while we were out there on the water was a tougher workout than any of my morning jogs along the Charles.

Who knew sailing was such a contact sport?

“I have a feeling I’ll be sore tomorrow,” I murmur. Glancing at him from the corner of my eye, I see his lips are pressed together to contain a laugh.

“Don’t make the joke, playboy.”

He chuckles. “It was too easy, anyway.”

I settle back against the cushions, trying to get comfortable despite the rain jacket still engulfing me from head to toe. The stiff waterproof material is warm and durable as all hell, but it’s not exactly lounge-wear.

“Here.” Parker grabs the large black sweater draped over a nearby chair and shoves it in my direction. “This will be more comfortable.”

I stare at the sweater, then let my eyes drag up his tanned forearm all the way to his face. The soft glow of the overhead light leaves his features in shadow, but I can still make out the plushness of his lips, the strong slope of his jawline, the dark slash of his brows. His eyes are warm gold, like melted honey, and there’s an expression on his face that makes my heart squeeze inside my chest.

Tenderness.

No one’s ever looked at me quite like that, before. I’ve never gotten close enough to give them a chance.

“Thanks,” I murmur, tearing my eyes from his as my fingers close around the fabric. “Now, turn around so I can change.”

He does, without a word.

In silence, I unzip the bulky jacket as fast as possible and slide the sweater over my head. It drapes well past mid-thigh, covering practically everything, so I shimmy out of the rain pants as well. Tugging at the hem to make sure none of my girly bits are exposed, I plant my hands on my hips and take a breath.

“All good,” I say. “You can look, now.”

When he turns back to face me, his eyes drop straight to my bare legs and hold there. In the space of a single heartbeat, I watch his jaw clench, see his eyes turn smoldering, recognize the way his posture changes from casual to carnal. I’m suddenly extremely aware that despite all his jokes and lighthearted comments… he’s very much a man.

An attractive, straight-up appetizing man, who’s looking at me with such heat, there’s no logical reason I haven’t melted into a pool of hormones at his feet.

His gaze flashes up to lock on mine. I see his intent a split second before it turns to action.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

He takes a step toward me anyway.

“We shouldn’t,” I say, not moving.

He prowls closer.

“No good can come of this,” I point out.

His hands hit my shoulders and he hauls me into his chest.

“This is a bad idea,” I breathe against his lips.

“This is a f*cking great idea,” he mutters.

And then I can’t say anything else, can’t even think of anything else, because his mouth is on mine.





8





The Regret




There’s a loud bang, like a door being kicked in, but I barely hear it. I’m buried in sensation — big hands in my hair, on my sides, beneath my shirt. Lips against my neck, my collarbone, the hollow behind my ear. Weight between my hips, pressing me into the cushions.

Parker’s fingers have found the hem of the sweater and started to make their way up my ribs. Mine are wrapped around his neck as he hovers above me, my lips tasting the sea salt on his skin as they move down the broad column of his throat.

I’m not sure if we’ve been kissing seconds or minutes. All I know is, it’s not nearly enough when we’re interrupted.

“What the f*ck is this?” a deadly voice growls. “Get off her!”