This Heart of Mine (Chicago Stars #5)(16)

He ached, and she smelled so good. Like oranges now. And her breasts were full against his chest—warm, soft, juicy oranges—and her mouth was on his, and her hands were all over him. Playing. Stroking. Finding their way to his cock.

He groaned as she caressed him. He smelled her woman's smell and knew he wouldn't last long. His arm didn't want to move, but he had to feel her.

She was slick, wet honey.

He moaned and rolled over. On top of her. Pushed inside her. It didn't happen easily. Strange.

The dream began to fade, but not his lust. He was feverish with it. The smell of soap, shampoo, and woman enflamed him. He thrust again and again, dragged open his eyes, and… couldn't believe what he saw!

He was buried inside Daphne Somerville.

He tried to say something, but he was long past talking. His blood pounded, his heart raced. There was a roaring in his head. He exploded.

At that moment everything inside Molly went cold. No! Not yet!

She felt his shudder. His weight crushed her, driving her into the mattress. Much too late, her sanity returned.

He went slack. Dead weight on top of her. Useless dead weight.

It was over. Already! And she couldn't even blame him for being the worst lover in history because she'd gotten exactly what she deserved. Nothing at all.

He jerked his head to clear it, then pulled out of her and erupted from the covers. "What in the hell are you doing?"

She wanted to yell at him for being such a disappointment, wanted to yell at herself even more. Once again she'd been caught pulling the fire alarm, but she wasn't seventeen any longer. She felt old and defeated.

Humiliation burned through her. "S-s-sleepwalking?"

"Sleepwalking, my ass!" He vaulted out of bed and stalked toward the bathroom. "Don't you dare move!"

Too late she remembered that Kevin had a reputation for holding grudges. Last year it had turned a rematch against the Steelers into a bloodbath, and the year before that he'd gone after a three-hundred-pound Viking defensive tackle. She scrambled from the bed and looked frantically for her nightgown.

A stream of obscenities erupted from the bathroom.

Where was her gown?

He shot back out, naked and furious. "Where the hell did you get that condom?"

"From your—your shaving kit." She spotted her linen gown, snatched it up, and clutched it to her breasts.

"My shaving kit?" He rushed back into the bathroom. "You pulled it from my—Shit!"

"It was… an impulse. A—a sleepwalking accident." She edged toward the hall door, but he reappeared before she could get there, charging across the carpet and grabbing her arm, giving her a shake.

"Do you know how long that thing was in there?"

Not nearly long enough! And then she realized he was talking about the condom. "What are you trying to say?"

He dropped her arm and pointed toward the bathroom. "I'm trying to say that it's been in there forever, and the son of a bitch broke!"

Exactly three seconds ticked by. Then her knees gave out. She sagged into the chair across from the bed.

"Well?" he barked.

Her fuzzy brain started working again. "Don't worry about it." Too late she grew conscious of the dampness between her thighs. "It's the wrong time of the month."

"There isn't any wrong time of the month." He flipped on the floor lamp, exposing more than she wanted him to see of her very ordinary, very naked body.

"There is for me. I'm as regular as a clock." She didn't want to talk to him about her period. She clutched her nightgown and tried to figure out how to get it back on without showing more of herself than she already had.

He didn't seem the slightest bit interested in either her nudity or his. "What the hell were you doing poking around in my shaving kit?"

"It, uh, was open, and I just happened to look in, and…" She cleared her throat. "If it was so old, why were you still carrying it around?"

"I forgot about it!"

"That's a stupid reason."

Those Astroturf-green eyes were murderous. "Are you trying to blame this on me?"

She drew a deep breath. "No. No, I'm not." It was time to stop acting like a coward and face the music. She stood up and pulled the nightgown over her head. "I'm sorry, Kevin. Really. I've been acting crazy lately."

"You're not telling me a damn thing."

"I apologize. I'm embarrassed." Her voice quivered. "Actually, I'm beyond embarrassment. I'm completely humiliated. I—I hope you can forget about this."

"Not likely." He grabbed a pair of dark green boxers from the floor and shoved his legs in.

"I'm sorry." She deserved to grovel, but since that didn't appear to be working, she reverted to being the world-weary, spoiled heiress. "The truth is, I was lonesome and you were available. You have a—reputation as a playboy. I didn't think you'd mind."

"I was available?" The air crackled. "Let's think about this. Let's think about what this would be called if the situation was reversed?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"What would this situation be called, for example, if I'd decided to crawl in bed with you—a nonconsenting female!"