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He rubbed at the back of his neck as he grimaced at the thought. Eight years he had dreamed about her. When he least expected it, when he was weak, tired. Dreams so blistering hot he would wake up pumping his own dick like an adolescent and moaning her name.
The past year had been worse. He was like a damned love-starved teenager going out of his way just to see her. Hoping to catch her smile, craving the sound of her voice.
Damn, he had missed her after she left town. Not that he had stuck around for long. He had signed up with the Marines before his parents’ death, and he shipped out just months afterward.
Long-distance court battles and the hell of trying to hold on to his parents’ estate had consumed him, but through it, he had thought of Crista.
She had left so suddenly, before he had the chance to gather up his nerve and do more than flirt with her a little bit.
When she returned to Somerset the year before, he thought maybe, this time, he could make it work. Until she stared at him like a slug crawling out from under a rock.
Why the hell did he even care? It wasn’t like she was the only game in town. He could have his pick from dozens of women. One night, one week, one month, one whole fucking year if he wanted to keep one that long.
Instead, he was blackmailing a woman who clearly had no interest in doing a damned thing about the attraction burning between them like wildfire.
And it was there. It sparked and exploded every time they were within seeing distance of each other. He could see her response to it. The widening of her eyes, the accelerated breathing, her hard little nipples pressing beneath her clothing and a wild flush to her creamy cheeks. She wanted him almost as damned bad as he wanted her, but she was denying it, fighting it with everything inside her, and Dawg wanted to know why.
He knew women. They didn’t fight something that strong without a damned good reason. Now, he just had to figure out the reason.
Breathing out roughly, he moved upstairs to his own shower and quickly stripped before stepping beneath the spray.
He showered quickly. He didn’t want to give her time to run. He wanted to give her time to think, though––to consider her options as they stood.
She wanted him, that much he knew. Wanted him enough that the whole time she was arguing the deal, her nipples were pressing harder beneath her shirt and her gaze was flashing with a subtle spark of lust.
Dawg had made it a point to know women before he had any business knowing them. Too young and too dumb to even understand why, he had been drawn to their softness, their veneer of sweetness.
The dark undercurrents of passion, power plays, and feminine wiles.
Women who were the exact opposite of his cold-blooded, crazy mother. Women who gave soft touches and whimpered for the pleasure he gave them. Who reached for him, who whispered his name in ecstasy rather than cursing it in hatred.
He knew how to read them, how to pleasure them.
And he knew that look of veiled hunger they gave to indicate their willingness to be pleasured.
Oh yeah, Crista wanted him, but for some reason she wasn’t willing to accept the fact that he was there for the taking.
Dawg grinned at the thought as he quickly toweled dry and dressed. The cotton briefs and sweats did nothing to hide the hard-on raging beneath the soft material. Pulling on a clean T-shirt, he moved back downstairs, his gaze roving around the dimly lit room as he searched for her.
And there she was. His T-shirt draped past her thighs as she sat nervously on the couch, her long hair still a little damp. She had obviously made use of the blow-dryer he kept in the guest bathroom.
Beautiful long, thick, dark chocolate hair that fell to the middle of her back and gave her a waiflike appearance.
Damn, she was small. Barely five feet six inches tall in her bare feet, with delicate bones and a nicely rounded figure. She wasn’t stick skinny, and he liked that, though he was well aware of the delicacy of her body in comparison to his.
Her face was still pale, her eyes too dark, but she looked composed. Hell, she looked like she was heading to the gallows rather than his bed.
“You
aren’t the best salve to my ego, fancy-face,” he told her as he moved through the room, watching her with an edge of amusement.
She rose slowly to her feet.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that. ”
She had never liked being called fancy-face, but that was how he saw her. Her face was a little irregular, her lips pouty and winsome, her nose pert with the slightest little tilt, and high, glorious cheekbones.
She was different in a way that stood out. She wasn’t beautiful in the acceptable sense of the word, rather she was eye-catching, mysterious. Unique.
