“Okay. I’ll cook here. What do you like?”
She opened the refrigerator, and stood in front of the door, letting the cold air wash over her. “Ahh.”
Jack leaned against the doorjamb, appreciating the view.
“I like you,” he said.
And he did. Her topknot had mostly come undone, and loose strands of her butterscotch hair fell over one eye and around her exposed collarbone. Her face was pink and sunburned, and her chest, arms, and legs were dirt-smudged. She was barefoot, and he noticed that her toenails were painted sort of a coral color. Her cotton sundress was thin and faded, and in the dim light of the kitchen he could see her body clearly silhouetted through the light from the refrigerator.
She had worked as hard as he had today, without complaint, eager to learn the skills he took for granted. Now she was as grimy as he, but she was totally unself-conscious and unapologetic about her appearance.
“Me?”
He put his hands around her waist and drew her to him. “You,” he said, and kissed her deeply.
She kissed him back, without hesitation. They stood there like that, with the cool refrigerated air washing over them. His lips traveled to her earlobes, and then to the nape of her neck and her collarbone. Her skin tasted warm and sweat-salty, but she still smelled faintly sweet, like floral shampoo.
“I could make us a salad,” she whispered, as she worked her hands up the back of his shirt.
“Mmm. Salad’s good.”
Her dress had skinny little straps that tied in a bow. He took the end of one of the stringlike things between his teeth and pulled, and it easily came undone. He kissed the bare spot, nibbling it just a little.
She inhaled sharply, but there was no protest, so he kissed his way, slowly, across her collarbone, pausing at the hollow just below her chin, where he felt her pulse quicken. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed, but her hands were busy on his back, massaging his shoulder blades, running down his back, then around, to his chest, her thumbs brushing his nipples. He detoured for a moment, burying his hands in her thick hair, and then he was kissing her again, their tongues darting in and out of each other’s parted lips. Her hands roamed down to his hips, and then back to his chest again.
She was saying something, but he’d lost his concentration. “Hmm?”
“I said, what kind of dressing?”
But before he could answer, not that he had an answer, she’d gathered the hem of his T-shirt in her fists, and abruptly jerked it upward. Helpfully, he crossed his arms over his head, and allowed her to pull it all the way off.
She took a half step backward, and assessed him lazily, through lowered eyelashes. Jack felt the blast of cold air on his bare chest. Caught her chin in his hand. “Did you say dressing, or undressing?”
Cara had drunk exactly one-half of a beer. So why did she feel so dizzy, intoxicated, and totally unlike herself?
It was all Jack Finnerty’s fault. She was not the kind of woman who noticed men’s bodies, ogled the way their jeans fit, obsessed about their muscled physiques, or fantasized about their romantic prowess.
So why had that been not far from her mind? All. Damn. Day. Why had she paused at the foot of that ladder, gazing up at his butt with an unexpected heat that seemed centered somewhere south of decent? Why had she obsessed about that thin-cotton T-shirt, sweat-soaked, clinging to his chest and his belly, wishing he’d just rip it off? And when the weight of his tool belt dragged his jeans down, and she’d glimpsed his navel and a downward-pointing arrow of dark hair, why had she been forced to go inside and slap cold water on her neck and face? Why?
Maybe it was inevitable that they would end up like this. After all, the second time she locked eyes with Jack, he’d dropped his trousers in front of her with absolutely no hesitation.
Jack kissed her again, and worked his knee between her legs.
“I could grill us a steak,” she whispered.
Dinner was the last thing on Jack’s mind. “Hmm?” His lips were working their way toward her left shoulder. He took the other thin strip of fabric between his teeth, pulled, and performed the same cheap trick as before. The strap fell away, and he nuzzled her bare, salty shoulder. Like a pretzel. Only way better. With his thumbs, he leisurely worked the dress downward, until he found her breasts, and her nipples, lowering his head to kiss them each, in turn.
Another brief gasp.
For a moment, he debated about the proper way to do this. The top of her dress had some kind of elastic. Should he pull it over her head, as she’d done with his shirt, or downward? Such a delicious dilemma.
“Steak.” She’d plunged her own hands into the waist of his jeans, her fingertips easing lower, digging into the flesh of his backside, at the same time, pressing her torso against his. He was already hard.
He nudged her backward, until she was pressed against the refrigerator shelves.
“I like steak.”
Down was the way to go, Jack decided. While his lips concentrated on her breasts, he skimmed his hands over her hips, pausing there. He found the hem of the dress, and in one easy movement, tugged it downward, past her hips and then her knees. From there, the dress fell to the floor, puddling around her bare ankles. Cara stood on her tiptoes, and with her right foot, delicately swept the discarded dress to one side.
