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At that precise moment, Gracie saw his hand move to his zipper and knew she had allowed herself to relax too soon. She took an instinctive step away from him only to feel her heel catch on the ice cream carton. The next thing she knew, she was lying flat on her back looking up at him.
“Well, now, what do we have here?” A diabolical gleam sparkled in his eyes as he gazed down at her, one hand still on his zipper, the other on his hip. Cold slapped the bare backs of her thighs where her skirt had ridden up. She planted the heels of her hands on the linoleum so she could scramble to her feet only to have Bobby Tom drop down on his knees next to her.
“Not so fast, sweetheart.”
She regarded him warily while she tried to scoot away. “I don’t know what you’ve got on your mind, but whatever it is, forget it right now.”
One corner of his mouth curled malevolently. “Oh, it’ll take me a long time to forget something like that.”
She gave a hiss of alarm as his gooey hands settled on her shoulders and he flipped her over onto her stomach. Her cheek squished into a mound of melting vanilla and she yelped. Before she could scramble back up, something that felt very much like his knee settled into the small of her back.
“What are you doing?” she cried as she found herself pinned to the linoleum.
He began working at the hook above her zipper. “Now, don’t you worry ’bout a thing, honey. I’ve been undressing women longer than I can remember, and it won’t take me but a few seconds to get this dress right off you.”
When she’d imagined storing up memories, this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. “I don’t want you to take my dress off!”
“’Course you do.” The hook gave. “Stripes are a funny thing. Unless you’re planning to officiate at a football game, I’d suggest you avoid ’em in the future.”
“I don’t need a fashion lecture from— Oh! Leave that zipper alone! Stop that!” He peeled the back of her dress open, lifted his knee, and, ignoring her squeals of protest, began pulling it down over her hips.
“Steady now, sweetheart. Dang, you do have some nice underwear.” In one motion, he removed the dress and flipped her onto her back, but he gazed at her white lace demibra and bikini underpants a moment too long.
Her hand closed around a clump of semisolid chocolate, and she flung it at him.
He gave a startled yelp as it hit him in the jaw, then he lunged for the carton. “That’s going to be a fifteen-yard penalty for unnecessary roughness.”
“Bobby Tom . . .” She screeched as he scooped out a big messy glob, dropped it on her stomach, and began rubbing it over her
skin with the palm of his hand. Gasping against the cold, she struggled to get away.
He grinned down at her. “Say ‘Forgive me, Bobby Tom, sir, for causin’ you all this trouble, and I promise I’ll do every single thing you tell me from now on. Amen.’ ”
She repeated one of his favorite rude words instead, and he laughed, giving her a golden opportunity to catch him in the chest with some strawberry.
From then on, it was a free-for-all. Bobby Tom had the advantage since he still wore his jeans and had better traction on the slippery linoleum than she did. He was also a well-conditioned athlete who knew far too many dirty tricks for someone who had once been named Sportsman of the Year. On the other hand, he kept having funny lapses of attention when he was smearing various parts of her with ice cream, and she took advantage of each one of them to plaster him with everything she could grab. She was yelping, laughing, and imploring him to stop all at the same time, but he had much more endurance than she, and it wasn’t long before she ran out of steam.
“Stop! No more!” She fell back to the floor. Her breasts strained against the lacy bra cups as her chest heaved from exertion.
“Say ‘Pretty please.’ ”
“Pretty please.” She gulped for air. She had ice cream everywhere, in her hair, her mouth, all over her body. Her once white underwear was streaked with muddy pink and brown. Not that he looked much better. She was especially pleased with the amount of strawberry she’d been able to work into his hair.
And then her mouth went dry as her eyes slid over his chest to the arrow-straight line of golden brown hair that traveled from above his navel down into the open V of his jeans. She stared at the large bulge that had grown there. Had she done that to him? Her eyes flew to his.
He regarded her with lazy amusement. For a moment neither of them moved, and then he spoke in a husky voice. “Pretty please with ice cream on top of it.”
She shuddered, not from the cold but from a coil of heat spreading through her. The excitement of the struggle had camouflaged her body’s violent reaction to the bombardment of sensations it was receiving. She was suddenly conscious of the contrast between the frigid ice cream and the blistering heat of her skin. She felt the rough scrape of denim against her thigh, the slipperiness of the oil between her fingers, the faint abrasion caused by the dirt that had been smeared on his chest and now covered her as well.
He dipped his index finger into the liquid strawberry puddle around her navel and painted a gentle downward path, stopping when he reached the narrow elastic band at the top of her ruined bikini panties.
“Bobby Tom . . .” Her heart felt as if it had stopped beating, and she spoke his name on a whisper of air so that it sounded like an entreaty.
His hands moved up to her shoulders, where he slipped his thumbs under the straps of her bra and pressed them into the small hollows there for a gentle massage.
The sharp, sweet yearning that flooded her was nearly unbearable. She wanted him so desperately.
As if he could read her mind, he dropped his hands to the center fastening of her bra and flicked it open. She went completely still, afraid he would remember that he was the man every woman wanted, and she was the girl who’d sat home alone the night of her senior prom.
