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He sighed. “I get it. PMS.”
“PMS is before, you idiot.”
“That’s what you say. Ask any man and you’ll hear a different story.”
“Like they’re experts,” she scoffed.
“Honey, the only experts in PMS are men. That’s why men are so good at fighting wars; they learned Escape and Evade at home.”
She thought about throwing a frying pan at him, but BooBoo was in the line of fire, and anyway, she would have to find a frying pan first.
He grinned at the expression on her face. “Know why PMS is called PMS?”
“Don’t you dare,” she threatened. “Only women can tell PMS jokes.”
“Because ‘mad cow disease’ was already taken.”
Forget the frying pan. She looked around for a knife. “Get out of my house.”
He put BooBoo on the floor and stood up, evidently ready to Escape and Evade. “Settle down,” he said, putting the chair between them.
“Settle down, my ass! Damn it, where’s my butcher knife?” She looked around in frustration. If she had only lived here longer, she would know where she had put everything!
He came out from behind the chair, around the table, and had a firm grip on both her wrists before she could remember which drawer held her cutting knives. “You owe me fifty cents,” he said, grinning down at her as he pulled her against him.
“Don’t hold your breath! I told you I wouldn’t pay when it’s your fault.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes so she could glare at him more effectively.
He bent his head and kissed her.
Time stood still again. He must have released her wrists, because her arms slid around his neck. His mouth was hot and hungry, and he kissed the way no man should kiss and still be allowed to run free. His scent was as warm and musky as sex, filling her lungs, permeating her skin. He put one big hand on her bottom and lifted her off her feet, aligning their bodies more completely, groin to groin.
The long skirt hampered her, preventing her from wrapping her legs around him. Jaine arched in frustration, almost ready to cry. “We can’t,” she whispered when he raised his mouth a fraction of an inch.
“We can do other things,” he murmured in reply, sitting down with her across his lap, tilted back across his supporting arm. Deftly he slipped his hand inside the scooped neckline of her sweater.
She closed her eyes in delight as his rough palm scraped over her nipple. He exhaled, a long, sighing sound; then it was as if they both held their breath as his hand shaped itself over her breast, learning her size and softness, the texture of her skin.
In silence he withdrew his hand and pulled the sweater off over her head, then deftly unclipped her bra and pushed it off her shoulders to fall to the floor.
She lay half-naked across his lap, her breath coming fast and shallow as she watched him looking at her. She knew her own breasts, but what were they like from a man’s point of view? They weren’t big, but were firm and upright. Her nipples were small and pinkish-brown, velvety soft and delicate compared to the rough fingertip he used to lightly circle one, making the aureole pucker even more tightly.
Pleasure speared through her, making her clench her legs tightly together to contain it.
He lifted her, arching her even more across his arm, and bent his head to her breasts.
He was gentle, totally without haste. She was stunned by his caution now, given his rapacious kisses. He nuzzled his face against the underside of her breasts, kissing the curves, licking gently at her nipples until they were reddened and so tight they couldn’t possibly get any tighter. When he finally began sucking her with slow, firm pressure, she was so ready it was as if he had touched her with a live wire. She couldn’t control her body, couldn’t stop herself from arching wildly in his arms; her heart was thundering, her pulse racing so fast she was dizzy.
She was helpless; she would have done virtually anything he wanted. When he stopped, it was by his own willpower, not hers. She could feel him shaking, his strong, powerful body quaking against her as if he were chilled, though his skin was hot to the touch. He sat her upright and pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands roughly stroking her hips, her bare back.
“If I ever get inside you,” he said in a strained tone, “I’ll last, like, two seconds. Maybe.”
She was crazy. She had to be, because two seconds of Sam sounded better than anything else she could bring to mind right now. She stared at him with glazed eyes and ripe, swollen mouth. She wanted those two seconds. She wanted them bad.
He looked down at her breasts and made a sound halfway between a whine and a groan. Muttering a curse, he leaned down and snagged her sweater from the floor, pressing it to her chest. “Maybe you’d better put this back on.”
“Mayb
e I should,” she said, and her voice sounded drugged even to herself. Her arms didn’t seem to be working; they remained twined around Sam’s neck.
