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“Six tours. Best and final.”
The silence stretched so long he worried he’d overplayed his hand and she intended to call his bluff. Goddammit, he was going to have to give in and go pop the lock for nothing except his peace of mind. But then he heard her long, aggrieved sigh.
“Fine. Six tours. Not a mark on the car.”
He turned and walked back to her. “Or you?”
Her chin came up as he drew near. “That goes without saying.”
“Does it?” He dropped his gaze, and took a slow tour of some territory he’d once been intimately familiar with, starting at her bare shoulders and continuing to where satiny skin disappeared beneath blue silk. “I remember finding some extremely creative places to leave marks.” He ran his finger along the neckline of her dress. “So you wouldn’t get in trouble. You didn’t need to be as cautious with me.”
“I”—she broke off and swallowed—“I don’t remember…”
Oh, yeah. She remembered. He took the gift bag out of her hand and set it on the roof of the Mercedes. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Sinclair.”
“What?” The word barely qualified as a whisper.
“I’m still extremely creative.” With that, he dropped to his knee, and peered behind her.
Her hand smacked his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Seeing if I can find a creative solution to your little predicament.” The position gave him an up-close look at the tangle of her skirt in the car door, the torn seam that rendered the dress un-wearable—he turned his head slightly—aaand the tiny, lacy, black panties that left mouthwatering portions of her ass bare to his view. Without doing any sort of motive check, he let his cheek brush the smooth flesh.
Muscles quivered in response. The hand on his shoulder switched to the top of his head, but she didn’t push him away. He trailed his lips across her thigh, automatically following the line of her panties where it hugged her hip and arrowed around front.
Her shuddery exhale triggered his inhale. Her scent stormed his senses, achingly familiar, and dangerously arousing. The molecules infiltrated his brain, coated the back of his throat, and left him dizzy from need. Balancing before her on both knees, taking a hip in each hand, he slowly closed in on the sheer triangle covering the prize.
“Shane…”
He took another hungry inhale. The tip of his nose skimmed the lace. “Yes?”
Those slim fingers slid down until her palm cupped the back of his head. Her thighs parted. “Ye—”
A car alarm shattered the silence and broke the spell lust and memories had woven around them. She jerked away, shoved her skirt down, and glared at him. “That’s not part of our deal.”
He stood, intentionally taking up the space she’d tried to carve out for herself. “Don’t kid yourself, Sinclair. That’s always been part of our deal.” True, but the retort stemmed from pure frustration. With himself, for letting his dick take charge of things when the rest of him had just managed to gain a little headway, and with her, for trying to deny the pull between them.
“Our agreement involved you getting me out of this mess”—she poked his pectoral—“not inspecting my underwear. Can you do it, or not?”
He was reasonably confident he could do both. “Here.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket and slung it around her shoulders.
“Thanks, but I—hey!”
His fingers found the zipper pull between her shoulder blades and whipped it down before she could finish her protest. As the dress pooled around her ankles, he hauled her against him and lifted her clear.
“This is your idea of a rescue?” Her voice pitched up with each word.
“You’re free. The car’s fine. I believe that satisfies the terms of our deal.”
“Put. Me. Down.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He let her slide slowly down his body. Her eyes widened when his hard-on raked her stomach. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she backed away, but he saw her gaze dart to the front of his pants. She bit her lip and shifted her attention to some point over his shoulder.
“This hardly improves my situation.”
That depended on the perspective. From his vantage point, things couldn’t get much better. He drank in the sliver of skin on display between the edges of his jacket. The small rose of black silk perfectly centered in her lush cleavage, her flat stomach, the scrap of lace he’d come within a hairsbreadth of kissing just seconds ago. But the clatter of a door and the hollow sound of footfalls on porch boards heralded company, and he didn’t want to share the view. He swept her into his arms. Her little huff of breath told him she hadn’t anticipated the move. “Don’t criticize. This is only phase one of the plan.”
“Manhandling me is phase two?”
