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Devon’s lips curved. “I’m sure I’ll regret telling you this—but, for the record, it was never a contest. You got to me from the minute I saw you when you freed my soggy pant leg from between Chomper’s teeth.”
“That was a turn-on, huh?”
“Big-time.”
“Good to know.” Blake reached out, threaded his fingers through her hair. “What else has that effect on you?”
She felt the sexual electricity between them crackle to life, shimmer through her. “Blake.” She pressed a restraining palm against his chest. Pragmatism was urging her to use these moments of intimacy to learn as much as she could. But pragmatism was being drowned out by desire. “We still have a lot of territory to cover,” she tried.
“Uh-huh—I know.” He leaned forward, nibbled on her shoulder.
“Verbal territory, I meant.” Her eyes slid shut.
“It’ll wait.”
“Till when? I have to get home at a reasonable hour. I have a shift at the clinic tomorrow.”
“Hmm.” He paused long enough to eyeball the nightstand clock. “You’re right. It’s getting late. The way I see it, we have two choices—finish our game of truth, or give a repeat performance of dare. Well, maybe not an exact repeat performance. A variation. Slower, more thorough, lengthier. But just as stimulating.” He moved Devon’s hair aside, kissed her neck, her throat. “Take your pick,” he muttered against her skin.
Devon was having trouble breathing. “We can play truth in the car,” she reasoned aloud.
“Good point.”
“And continue it on the phone.”
“Right.”
“And…” She had no idea what she was going to say next. Nor did she care.
“And…?” Blake prompted, raising his head and gazing at her, sparks of amber fire glinting in his eyes.
“And nothing.”
His smile was darkly seductive. “So what’s the verdict?”
Devon lay back against the pillows, reaching for Blake as she did. “Let’s go for dare.”
CHAPTER 20
Monty and Lane were perched at the
kitchen counter, drinking coffee, when Devon flew down the stairs the next morning. She was concentrating on twisting her still-damp hair into a French braid and simultaneously zipping up her boots, when she stumbled into the kitchen.
Spotting her brother and father, she came to a halt. “Hi.” She noted their dour expressions, and her stomach knotted. “Is Mom okay?”
“She’s fine,” Lane assured her.
“Then why is Monty here at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning? And why are you both glaring at your coffee like it’s poison?”
“I’m running interference,” Lane supplied.
“And I’m waiting for you.” Monty set down his cup with a thud. “Have a late night?”
“Excuse me?”
“What time did you get in?”
“I already answered that one, Monty,” Lane reminded him, looking more amused than annoyed. “Three seventeen. Give or take a minute.”
