Chapter Thirteen
Beau
Belle’s eyes changed from clear blue to Beau’s new favorite shade—indigo, a surefire indicator of the thoughts running rampant inside her head.
A streak of hot, searing lust shot south with the speed of a runaway Amtrack Acela in response.
What about their conversation had turned things in this direction?
“You’re too old for my mother,” she said. “Probably too annoying for her, too.”
So that was what this was about. She was jealous. Damned if that wasn’t hot—although he’d never thought so whenever Jen started in.
Maybe because with Jen, it was about her accusing him of the things she was doing herself.
Belle, however, had been spoiling for a fight since she walked in the room, and it was obvious to him that she needed to let off some steam.
She’d been blindsided, and since it might do her good to take out her frustrations on an innocent third party, he’d do her a favor and help her along.
She wasn’t very good at saying things she’d later regret whereas he was a master.
“There aren’t many men around here that she’d find of interest other than Jayce, and he’s pretty dull,” he said thoughtfully. “Besides, it’s only for a few weeks. Nothing serious would come of it.”
“I’ll tranquilize you in your sleep and let Adam toss you over a cliff if you sleep with my mother,” Belle said fiercely.
Beau would have laughed except she was seriously pissed, and while saying things she might regret later might be therapeutic, he didn’t want her to do anything that there’d be no taking back. Adam would have no problem at all in tossing him off a cliff if she asked.
“I’d rather sleep with her daughter. In case I didn’t make that clear enough to you this afternoon.”
“No, you did not make that clear,” she said, getting all snippy.
He hadn’t? He could have sworn that the hard evidence had been right there between them.
And he wanted to get her naked even more now, because the skintight pink pants that showed off the toned ass he’d been admiring for days, and the stretchy black top that plumped up and exposed more of her breasts than it covered, fired his imagination in a way a nineteenth-century skirt and apron did not.
Add in the temper-flushed cheeks, snapping blue eyes, and that long tangle of brown curls that stroked her bare shoulders whenever she moved, and that same hard evidence was about to explode in his jeans.
He carefully readjusted his footing, trying to ease the strain on his fly.
Women, however, all seemed to require some form of verbal reassurance when it came to their physical desirability—country music made a killing off it—and sadly, it turned out that Belle was no different.
“I’ve had a perpetual hard-on from the moment I met you,” he said, which was no word of a lie. “My hand hasn’t gotten a workout like this since junior high. Why do you think I take such long showers and use your shampoo?”
If he’d hoped that might fluster her, then he was mistaken.
“What’s stopping you, then?” she demanded.
He didn’t dare say because her family was crazy. Not even in fun. They weren’t her fault, and he’d never try to make her think that they were.
“Adam. He’s going to load me into his van in a few weeks and drop me off at the airport. I’d like to leave here in better shape than I arrived.”
“What we do is none of his business. That leaves us a few weeks. Why should we waste them?”
Because Belle was in a weird mood and not thinking straight, and he didn’t really believe she was wired for sex with no strings.
An encounter that might or might not lead to something more permanent, sure.
But sex for the sake of it with a hard deadline in sight?
That seemed kind of cold, and Belle was not that. She’d regret it.
“I’d hate to leave you heartbroken. I’m hard to get over,” he said.
“You certainly have a hard time getting over yourself.”
She was getting the hang of saying things she’d later regret. Except he didn’t find it as funny when it was directed at him. And she didn’t sound as if she’d be regretting a thing.
He sighed. Since she wanted a fight, he might as well make it a good one. At least there weren’t going to be any tears. She might look soft and sweet, but inside, she was tough. There could be something of Mavis in her at that.
“Careful. If you sounded any sexier, I’d have to write a song about you.”
She looked at him in a way that said he was fighting a battle he stood no chance of winning. “That’s right … I’m supposed to inspire you—and didn’t you say that country music is about sex?”
The room was too small and too hot, even though the sun approached the horizon, and the temperature in the mountains was quick to follow. He’d open a window, but who knew where Linda might pop up next?
“Love. I said love,” he croaked out.
Belle dismissed the distinction with a scientist’s disdain. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her pink stretchy pants and eased them over her hips, revealing sheer white bikini panties that had to be nonstandard issue, because no way had Benny authorized their manufacture.
“Chemistry—simple physical attraction—is often mistaken for love,” she said as she wriggled her hips.
The yoga pants dropped to the floor, and she kicked them aside.
“Despite what country music would have fans believe, no healthy person has ever died of a broken heart so there’s no need to worry on my account, if that’s your concern. ”
He could barely remember his name anymore, let alone worry about potential heart problems, although he still believed that sex was a bad idea right now, even if he was no longer sure why.
But Belle had a differing opinion, and hers held a whole lot of sway, especially when she was standing there better than naked—because the sheer panties and tight tank top had his imagination on overdrive. Already, he was picturing all the things they’d be doing.
He reconciled himself to taking one for the team. She was riled up for sure but yelling and screaming and crying were not in her nature. Neither was verbal sparring going to take the edge off her temper. She needed a metaphorical punching bag of some sort, and he appeared to be it.
He had to make her work for it, though. What was the point of throwing a good temper tantrum if she couldn’t enjoy it? But how much resistance should he put up?
Not too much, he decided. Enough for show. That was it.
“I’m not worried about anything,” he said, trying to sound casual and act cool, as if this was an everyday occurrence for him. “I hear a whole lot of talking, but so far, there’s no action to speak of.” Which wasn’t exactly true, since she was half-naked. “What are you planning to do about it?”
He backed up a few steps and bumped into a stool, then worked a low table between them.
Blue fire snapped in her eyes, but the fire was tempered by curiosity as she picked up on the game and got into the spirit of things.
She tracked him around the room like a cat on the hunt, then out into the hall, and damned if he wasn’t turned on.
He let her catch him against the closed door to her clinic. “Oh, no,” he said, clasping his hands to his chest. “What are you going to do to me now?”
She planted her hand on the door, pushed her knee between his thighs, then lifted her chin to whisper into the base of his throat. “Take your shirt off if you want to find out.”
He did want to find out. He shed the T-shirt with a passing display of reluctance that no hot-blooded woman would buy.
Her fingers tugged at the zip of his jeans, and exhibiting a doctor’s understanding of the perils involved, she slid her palm between his skin and the metal teeth for added protection as she ran the slider down.
The elastic band of his briefs followed suit, and his swollen willy sprang free.
She flipped her palm over and took him in hand.
He sucked air through his teeth as she proved she knew what she was doing.
A hand job, handled by the hand of a professional, in his humble opinion, was second to none, and he grabbed hold of her ass for support while her fingers worked magic.
She cupped his aching balls while the tip of her finger traced the seam underneath, and for a heart-stopping second, he feared he’d explode.
Then Belle’s hand withdrew, and the intensity of his disappointment was blinding.
“Take your pants off,” she demanded.
The hell with reluctance. He rushed to comply.
She caught the hem of her tank and peeled it off in a slow, languid tease of fabric and uplifted arms that had his blood had rushing from one engorged head to another, leaving him weak in the knees and concerned he’d pass out before they reached the finale.
The only thing standing between him and success was the little scrap of sheer fabric she pretended were panties.
She saw where he was looking. “You can take them off me, if you like.”
Oh, he liked. Yes indeed. But he’d do it his way.
He dropped to his knees and took the front band of elastic in his teeth, using his fingers for added leverage from behind.
He dragged her panties to her knees, binding her legs, then ran his palms up the smooth insides of her thighs until his thumbs touched soft folds.
He knew she was ready but glanced up to gauge what effect he was having, partly for his own personal pleasure.
She had her eyes closed and was breathing in soft, eager pants, and he couldn’t imagine a view more exciting.
She took hold of his head, twined her fingers into his hair, and urged his mouth forward.