My Killer Vacation(15)

I’m not going to point out that he just referred to me as beautiful.

Meaning he already complimented me.

That would be childish.

“I date, yes. But I wouldn’t call it constantly. More like…occasionally.”

Is there a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead that wasn’t there a moment ago? “And you’ve never gotten to use your hook-up panties.”

“Stop calling them that.” I smack him hard in the shoulder and he doesn’t even flinch. “I’m not a virgin. I’m just…I’m picky. Unforgivably picky. It’s why I’m going to end up alone.”

He processes that with an unreadable expression. “Let me guess. You want a man who wears a suit and argyle fucking socks to work and reads the finance section of the newspaper at breakfast while mumbling ‘yes dear, no dear’ like a robot.”

“That’s a pretty bold assumption.”

His upper lip curls. “Am I wrong?”

It’s the challenge in his eye that pushes me past polite into uncharted territory. Maybe discovering poor, dead Oscar brought me to this place, too. A place of clarity. I’m not sure. But as I kneel on the floor beside this behemoth, I hear echoes in the back of my mind. People throughout my life, college friends, colleagues and especially my parents, telling me I’m sensible. That I always play it safe. Even my second graders like to point out my idiosyncrasies. Giggling over the way I check the temperature of my coffee with a pinkie before sipping—even after five or six gulps. Just to be sure. Sending out search parties for kids who take longer than five minutes in the bathroom, like a nervous nelly. And I’m not claiming that my recent proximity to murder has transformed me into the new Lara Croft or anything, but I’ve felt bolder and more in charge in the last two days than I’ve ever felt before.

This bully isn’t going to knock me back a step.

Besides.

I haven’t always wanted to play it safe. Not in every aspect of my life.

I’ve always had a little…or maybe not so little…desire for some added…zest.

“I guess I wouldn’t mind the suit and socks and finance section type of man. No, that would be fine with me. As long as he doesn’t treat me like porcelain in bed.” Lord, it is incredibly satisfying to witness the smirk fade from his face. Take that, muscle head. “That’s where the pickiness comes in. It seems I can’t have both. On one hand, I’d like a man who makes a good living and wants a family someday. On the other, I’d like to be manhandled once in a while. Just sort of thrown down and told who is boss, you know? Is that so much to ask? But on the three occasions I’ve dated a man long enough to…to do…it, they insisted on treating me with respect in bed. It was incredibly disappointing. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”

That sheen of sweat is a lot more obvious now.

Along with his utter shock.

I like the bold new me. I’ve just rendered a bounty hunter speechless!

And I still have four days left of this vacation!

“There.” I pat his massive shoulder. “You have your book. Time to go.”

“Book?” he rasps.

“The guest book.” This is the best day of my life. “The one you’re holding.”

“Right.”

“You might be interested to know that prior to the group of girls who stayed there last week, no one had rented the house since last summer.” Using the edge of the bed for balance, I climb to my feet. “Because Oscar himself had been living there for a full ten months.”

“That so?” the bounty hunter murmurs. He is staring at my belly button like it’s the one speaking. I could pretend I don’t like his attention on me, but I think that ship is leaving port at full speed. I found him attractive before, despite his wildly rude personality. Now, in the setting of the bedroom, having given him very personal details about my sexual longings, intimacy builds between us. Potent. Visceral. And I can’t help it, there’s no way to stop my body from responding to him. Because this man is definitely not the one I’m searching for to settle down with. But I bet he’d give me that elusive physical excitement I can’t seem to track down for the life of me. Or at least come close? I’m starting to think animal attraction, paired with actual love and respect, only exists in scripted movies and romance novels.

His gaze travels down and lingers on the zipper of my shorts, inching lower to the apex of my thighs. He wets his lips. The air in my lungs evaporates. Oh God, what’s going to happen? Nothing. Nothing can happen. Right? It’s daytime and my brother is downstairs.

Apparently I’m the only one making a mental pro/con list, because the bounty hunter reaches out and grips the waistband of my shorts, the heat of his touch searing my hips, and he drags me forward. Fast enough to make me stumble a little. His hot breath curls in my belly button and I reach for his hair, tangling it around my fingers, exhilaration pouring through me like a mile-high waterfall. And then he licks me. He licks across my exposed belly from one hip to the other. Then bites down on my abductor. Hard enough to make me gasp.

“I’m Myles,” he says hoarsely. “That’s my name.”

“Myles,” I whisper, my knees seconds from giving out.

“Taylor,” calls Jude from downstairs, beginning to sound alarmed. “You good up there?”