Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(69)

Annabelle sucked in air. “We watched porn, okay?”

He grinned and tossed the phone down. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea. And it’s not funny. Besides, it wasn’t really porn. It was erotica. For women.”

“There’s a difference?”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing I’d expect a man to say. Do you think most of us get off watching a bunch of women with collagen lips and soccer-ball implants go at each other?”

“From your expression, I’m guessing not.”

She needed something cold to drink, and she headed for the kitchen, still talking because she had a point to make. “Like seduction. Does your average porn film even think about showing a little seduction?”

He followed her. “To be fair, there’s not usually much need. The women are pretty aggressive.”

“Exactly. Well, I’m not.” As soon as the words were out, she could have kicked herself. The last thing she’d wanted to do was bring the subject back to the personal.

He didn’t pounce on her misstep, not the wily Python. He liked to play with his prey before he struck. “So did the film have a plot?”

“Rural New England, virginal artist, studly stranger, ’nuff said.” She pulled open the refrigerator door and stared inside without seeing a thing.

“Only two people. That’s disappointing.”

“There were a couple of subplots.”

“Ah.”

She turned on him, her damp palm still curled around the refrigerator door handle. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’m ashamed of myself.”

She wanted to smell him. His hair was nearly dry, his skin freshly showered. She wanted to press her face against his chest and inhale, to burrow in, maybe find an errant tuft of silky hair and let it tickle her nose. She nearly whimpered. “Please go away.”

He cocked his head. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

She grabbed the first cold thing she touched and pushed the door shut. “You know the way I feel about this. About…us.”

“You were pretty clear last night.”

“I’m right, too.”

“I know you are.”

“So why did you argue with me?”

“Jerk syndrome. I can’t help it. I’m a guy.” His lips curved in a lazy smile. “And you’re not.”

Enough bolts of sexual electricity charged the air to light up the planet. He stood between her and the bedroom, and if she passed too close, she’d be tempted to lick, so she headed for the porch and nearly stumbled over the mattress he’d dragged out there last night. He’d tidied the sheets, stacked the pillows, and folded the blanket in half, doing a better job of it than she’d done with the double bed.

He ambled out. “Do you want a sandwich with that?”

She couldn’t figure out what he was talking about until she followed his gaze to her hand and saw a jar of French’s mustard there instead of a can of Coke. She’d stared at it. “Mustard happens to be a natural sleep aid.”

“Never heard that.”

“You don’t know everything do you?”

“Apparently not.” A few beats of silence ticked by. “Do you eat it or apply it?”

“I’m going to bed.”

“Because if you apply it …I could probably help with that.”

Her redhead’s temper ignited, and she slammed the jar down on the farmhouse table. “Why don’t I just hand you my panties and be done with it?”

“That’ll work.” His teeth glinted like a shark’s. “So if I kiss you right now, will you turn into a big sissy again?”

Her anger faded, leaving trepidation in its wake. “I don’t know.”

“I’ve got a good-size ego—you know that. But the way you rejected me last night still bordered on the traumatic.” He slipped a thumb into the top of his shorts, causing the elastic waistband to dip in a deep, mouthwatering V. “Now I’m wondering, what if I’ve lost my touch? What do I do then?” He moved his thumb closer to the blade of his hip bone, revealing even more skin. “You can see why I’m a little concerned.”

As she gazed at the wedge of taut abdomen, she had to fight the urge to roll the cold mustard jar over her forehead. “Uh…I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it.” Summoning her last ounce of willpower, she began to slide past him, and she might have made it if he hadn’t reached out and touched her arm. It was the merest brush of his finger—a simple parting gesture—but he’d found bare skin, and that was enough to make her stop in her tracks.

He went as still as she. As he gazed down at her, his green eyes were an invitation to disaster overlaid with faint apology. “Damn it,” he whispered. “Sometimes I’m too much of a smart-ass for my own good.”

He pulled her against him, feasted on her mouth, ran his hands down the contours of her back. And she let him, just as she had last night, ignoring the fact that this was the Super Bowl of bad ideas, ignoring all the reasons why she shouldn’t live every moment of this one night and deal with the consequences tomorrow.

“No patience.” His dusky murmur fell like a caress over her cheek as he lowered the zipper on her dress in one effortless motion.