Chapter Two #3
“Come on.” He kept his arms around her while he led her back to the table, where their food waited.
She heard him call to the waitress and ask for go-boxes. Briefly, she opened her eyes while he was packing their food, spotted her drink, then grabbed it and downed it.
“Charity —"
“Kick makes the best drinks in the world,” she said, smacking her lips. The room started to spin, and she reached out to grab the high-top.
“Whoa. Are we having an earthquake?”
An annoyed tsk blew from Kolby as he slid an arm around her waist again. “Come on. I’m taking you home and putting you to bed.”
“Like you’d ever take me to bed,” she quipped with a chortle.
The next thing she realized, she was being lifted into his truck by those arms she’d wanted to get around her for three years.
“Buckle up, Buttercup,” he said as he belted her in.
Charity giggled, then found she couldn’t stop. She doubled over in the seat. Kolby gently pushed her forehead so she was sitting back upright, then moved to his side of the truck.
After he put the truck in gear, he pulled out from the lot. Charity was still laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“What?”
“Why are you laughing like a hyena?”
“Am I? Do hyenas really laugh? And if so, why? You’d think they’d be cryin’ most o’the time, stuck out on the Plains, hungry an’ hot. Don’t 'cha?”
“Don’t I what?”
She narrowed her already drowsy eyes at him, almost closing them as she tried to turn in the seat. Something prevented her from moving.
Oh yeah. Seatbelt.
“Keep up, O’Brian.” She clapped her hands, the noise raucously loud in the cab. “We’re talkin’ ’bout hyenas.”
“Are we? I thought we were talking about how you think you’re not my type.”
She blinked again, as she swayed a little with the movement of the truck.
“I’m not. Not even close.” She flapped a hand in the air. “I’m not tall or thin or boobilicious.”
This time, he laughed. “Boobilicious? That’s a new one.”
Another hand flap. “It fits. You like ’em built. So," she pointed at her torso, “not me.”
Her eyes drifted closed again as he stayed silent. The gentle swaying of the truck must have lulled her to sleep because the next thing she knew, she was being carried.
Popping open one eye, she asked, “What are you doing?”
“Since you went comatose in my truck, I’m carrying you inside.”
“Oh. Nice.”
Her eyelids drifted down again.
“Babe, I gotta stand you up so I can get the key out of your bag.”
“Under the mat,” she said, resisting when he tried to right her to a flat-footed position.
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not.” She never even opened her eyes as he bent with her securely in his hold and pulled the spare key.
“We’re gonna have a serious heart-to-heart about girl safety and living alone, sweetheart, when you’re not sloshed.”
Why did his voice suddenly sound like he was growling?
More importantly: why did she like it so much?
“You have a really sexy voice,” she murmured against his shirt. “Makes me think of smokey, sweaty sex.”
His grip loosened a bit and she clung on tighter.
“I’m impressed you got all that alliteration out when you’re so hammered,” he said.
“I’m not hammered. Just really, really tired.”
“Yeah, because you drank two full glasses of alcohol without eating anything.”
“You’re very judgy. Why have I never noticed that about you before?”
He shifted again, then placed her on something flat and comfy.
When she finally opened her eyes, she found herself supine on her bed, the covers pulled down so she was on her sheets. Kolby had let her go and was in the process of removing her shoes.
“Hey,” she said, shoving up on her elbows.
“Hey, what?” He placed the shoes on the floor next to the bed and stared down at her, hands on his hips. His face told her he was annoyed.
And even annoyed he was the hottest man she’d ever known.
She pushed up to her knees and grabbed him around his shoulders. “Come back here.” She tugged hard and then plastered his body against hers as she fell backward with him on top. He was so large his feet hung over the bed, but she had him against her, nipples to knees.
“Better,” she mumbled. “You’re so warm. Better than a blanket.” She nuzzled the side of his neck, her breath fanning across his skin. Her hands fisted in the back of his shirt. “Stay here and warm me.”
Kolby braced himself up on his elbows and, staring down at her with a frown, said, “Charity, let go.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
His frown deepened. “Babe, you’re drunk, and I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna remember this in the morning, but just in case you do, I want you to realize I’m not the one making moves here.”
“No,” she said, nodding. Her head didn’t move much because she was flat on the bed. “I am.”
“And that’s the problem.”
He attempted to shift and rise, but she wrapped her legs around his hips and squeezed. The motion pressed the lower, most intimate part of her body in direct connection with the lower, most intimate part of his.
Kolby’s breath blew through his lips when she ground into him.
“Charity?"
“Kiss me,” she commanded. “Kiss me like you kiss all those other women. Like you want me. Me. Please, Kolby. Please.”
Before he could say no, she cleaved her mouth to his.
Shock came first–his. Kolby’s entire body stilled as Charity pulled up into the kiss, tracing his bottom lip with her tongue, demanding entry.
After the shock came surrender. So swift, so complete that Charity sent a thankful note to the heavens she wasn’t standing or even sitting, because she would have dissolved into a puddle at his feet.
His body, still tense above her, eased slowly toward relaxation as their tongues twined and mated.
Of course he’d be a good kisser. All the times she’d daydreamed about him taking her in his arms, lifting her up so she could circle her legs around his waist, having him back her into a wall and just destroy her with a kiss was nothing compared to reality.
Those unflawed, full lips were created to give a woman pleasure, of that she had no doubt.
He tasted like heaven mixed with sin; spice with just enough heat to burn but not scorch.
His tongue twined with hers, teased, sipped, sucked. The space between her legs where he’d settled himself, throbbed.
And that wasn’t the only thing throbbing between them.
The beer he’d drank coated her tastebuds. The flavor covered some of his natural essence, the bitter brew competing with the sweet, honeyed tang of him.
The bitter won.
Without warning, Charity’s stomach roiled. She hated beer. Hated the taste, the smell, the hoppy flavor. The one beer she’d ever imbibed had sworn her off the drink for life.
Squirming under him, she pushed at his shoulders, smacking them, her legs falling from their hold on his hips. She dug her heels into the bed, turned her head to the side, the sound of their lips breaking apart like a suction cup disengaging.
Kolby shot up on his elbows again.
“Char —"
“Up!” she commanded, her voice choked. “Get up. Now!”
He didn’t hesitate. He shot off the bed and she sprouted wings, flying to her bathroom and falling to her knees.
Two seconds later, Kick Loomis’ delicious cocktail colored the porcelain of her toilet berry-red.
She sensed the hand on her back and then the swift uptake of the hair falling around her face being pulled back and held up and out of the way.
And then...nothing.
***
Someone had stuffed cotton into her mouth and coated her lips with sandpaper.
Her eyes wouldn’t open, and she wondered if they'd been glued shut. She knew it was morning because sunlight from her huge bedroom window warmed her face and chest like it did every day. Plus, she could see light filtering in through her eyelids.
What time was it?
She rolled to her side, attempted to open her eyes. It took a few tries and a rapid tattoo of blinking to be able to see clearly and not as if she were peeking through cheesecloth. The digital clock on her bedside table told her it was just after seven a.m.
Okay, good. She hadn’t overslept her appointment at the inn.
But...confusion drowned her brain.
How had she gotten home? The last thing she remembered was being at The Love Shack with Kolby. She’d had a drink. One of Kick Loomis’s fabulous cranberry Cosmos. Maybe...two?
Why couldn’t she remember?
She rolled to her back and then lifted on her elbows. The sheet fell away, and she found herself in just her strapless bra.
How—?
Lifting the sheet, she saw she still had her panties on, but why wasn’t she in her pajamas?
Damn.
The drink must have gone to her head, something she did remember Kolby remarking on. Maybe that was why her memory was so spotty. She hadn’t eaten anything all day yesterday, and Kick’s drinks were strong. Notoriously strong. Which is why she usually only allowed herself one.
Kolby.
Had he brought her home? He must have. She couldn’t remember ordering car service. One way to check. A quick glance at her bedside table and she didn’t see her phone where she kept it plugged in and charging every night.
Odd.
She turned to see if she’d left it on the other side table and froze mid-turn.
No.
No.
NO!
Kolby O’Brian, the bane of her work existence, the man she’d secretly lusted over and despised for three solid years, was sprawled on his back, sound asleep, spread-eagle, his naked chest on full display.
The sheet was low on his waist, flirting with his hips. A tiny patch of black silk peeked over the edge, telling her he wasn’t completely naked.
Thank the Lord and all the angels for that.
But still...
What the hell was he doing in her bed?
Had he driven her home and then...? Wait... Had they...? Did he....?
No. No. Impossible.
Impossible.
She couldn’t have slept with him. Wouldn’t have. She’d vowed a long time ago never to be a proverbial notch on his belt.
Surely she’d remember if she'd slept with him...right?
She slapped at her face, hoping against hope she was stuck in a waking dream and alone, Kolby tucked into his own bed. Or someone else’s.
But not, definitely not, hers.
Why the hell couldn’t she remember anything? As the good Lord was her witness, she was never drinking again. Never.
The noise of her hand hitting her cheek startled him.
His eyes flicked open as he dragged in a breath and then turned his head to her, his burly arms stretching over his head.
Muscles rippling as his fingers, splayed, extended to her headboard and touched, while he hauled in a deep, cavernous morning breath.
He blinked a few times, one corner of his mouth lifting a hair, then said, “Hey,” in a voice that had all her senses going up in flames.
She wasn’t dreaming.
Kolby O’Brian, all two hundred pounds of solid sinew, killer sexiness, and near nakedness, was in her bed.
Her bed.
And, apparently, had been all night.
“Charity?”
He slid onto his side and lifted, bending his elbow and resting his head in his palm. He yawned, wide enough that she could see his back molars. A vague memory of her tongue gliding along them shot to the front of her mind.
Oh, good God. She’d kissed him. Really kissed him. Like, playing tonsil hockey kissed him.
So many sensations raced through her system that she had trouble keeping up with them.
But one was stronger than all the others, outweighing them with its intensity and heft.
One emotion pushed to the surface, robbing her of all the cool composure she usually showed the world, the professional calm she prided herself on. She wasn’t even able to call down deep into her hidden reserves for a tiny bit of it.
Anger blew straight up from her toes, taking possession of every pore on her skin, every nerve in her spine, and every ounce of her self-control.
“Babe?” His brows tugged together in the middle of his forehead. His voice was thick with sleep, utterly arousing, and totally infuriating.
Forgetting everything she had ever studied in Karate about maintaining calm and staying centered, and, unable to contain herself, she bolted upright, the sheet falling away from her nearly naked breasts as fury curled in her body, overtook it, and then screamed to unleash.
“What. The. FUCK?!”