Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(35)

The confession surprised him only a little. “I could tell,” he said.

She scowled at him. “I wasn’t a virgin, Mal. I’ve had sex before, but not with a perfect stranger I was pretty sure I’d never see again. No, not part of my life plan. Never was, anyway. And never will be again.” She shook her head vehemently. “And this whole thing is proof that shit goes down the drain when I go off plan.”

“Look, the first thing I can tell you, field rookie, is that plans are nothing but contingent out there in the real world.”

She sliced him with a challenge in her eyes. “Sex with me was a contingency plan?”

He leaned closer. “Sex with you was amazing,” he said, his voice a little husky. “And if you want an apology, I’ll give you this: I’m not sorry it happened, but I’m sorry if you feel I duped you.”

She searched his face for a long time. “Huh, look at that. You do know how to define an apology.”

He managed a smile. “Do you know how to accept one?”

“Maybe.” Her eyes narrowed with the next question. “Would you have hit on me if you weren’t being hounded by God knows who?”

“I don’t know.”

Her shoulders sank a little. “Gee, thanks.”

“I mean, I don’t know how else to live, so I’m going to assume everyone is out for me. Once I trust someone, Francesca…” He tipped her chin to lift her face toward his.

“You can liaise?”

“Frequently.” He took a chance and inched closer.

“No.” She shook off his touch. “Can’t do that. Stop flirting with me.” She backed away some more, pointing at him. “And quit calling me Francesca.”

“I can’t call you by your name? Why not?”

“The way you say it is entirely and unfairly sexy.”

Really. He’d have to hide that away in his arsenal of things he might need later. “Well, I never want to be sexy, that’s for sure.”

“And no more inside jokes and almost kisses, and please, please, put a shirt on for the rest of your life.”

Her humor gave him a little hope, and relief. “Are we good, then?”

“Define good,” she fired back, just enough of a smile in her eyes that he knew she was yanking his chain.

“I’d define it as—what was the phrase again?—‘the best sex—’”

She slammed her hand over his mouth. “Do not push your luck, Malcolm Harris.”

He kissed her palm and watched her eyes flutter the tiniest bit. So, he pressed his hand over hers and kissed again. And once more, because even kissing the inside of her hand was pretty much the best thing his mouth had done for hours.

She didn’t move her hand. “And yet you continue to push your luck.”

He turned her hand and threaded their fingers, keeping her knuckles close to his lips. “I don’t know how to stop doing any of those things you want me to stop doing,” he admitted. “I know you probably are thinking ‘never again,’ and I don’t blame you for one second, and I have no idea what kind of promises you made to Gabe, but—”

“No promises,” she whispered, holding his gaze, the connection as fiery and real as it had been in the hotel room. “I haven’t made any promises.”

“Good.” He kissed her knuckle. “’Cause contingency planning means anything can happen, Francesca.”


“Contingency plans and liaisons. Can’t you call it what it is? Sex.”

“It could be,” he agreed, leaning in to capture her mouth. She let go of his hand and placed it on his cheek, letting him pull her rain-dampened body into his chest.

And she felt every single bit as real and soft and sweet and warm as last night. Their mouths just fit so perfectly, her tongue against his teeth, his lips over hers. Everything just fit and felt so damn good.

“What the hell are we doing?” she murmured into his mouth.

“Kissing.” He nibbled her lower lip. “I think it’s a standard part of any apology.”

She smiled into the next kiss, less tentative, but still not fully happy about the direction her little walk in the rain had taken, he could tell. “Don’t forget the ‘I owe you one’ part.”

He kissed her again. “I owe you one.”

“One what?”

“One more kiss. One more…” He lifted his head. “One more night.”

She closed her eyes and sighed, her resignation practically palpable. “What the hell is it about you?”

“Francesca.” He pulled her even closer. “I know you’ve never had a one-night stand or hookup or fling or whatever the hell you want to call it, but have you ever just had sex for fun? No strings. No promises. No commitments. No expectations or hopes?”

“Yeah, last night.”

“We could do that again,” he whispered. And again and again and again. “For fun.”

“It was fun,” she agreed begrudgingly. “All that rolling around and laughing. That was pretty much textbook fun.”

“Went way past fun,” he said.

“Well into ridiculous. And I…” Her eyes narrowed in mock anger. “I wanted to do it again.”