Talk Dirty to Me

“Wanna see who knows the definition of more fetishes?”

“Almost as much as I’d like to see my spleen advertised on eBay.”

Caine’s eyes narrowed, glittering with amusement while his lips formed a sexy, cocky challenge of a smile. “That’s because you know you’ll lose. What’s the matter, Dixie? All bet-out for the day?”

“I’m all Caine’d out for forever. So what do you want, and why are you in my room? I don’t recall hearing a knock.”

Rising to her feet, she brushed a strand of her wet ponytail from her face, stepping around his solid frame.

“Door was open. And pillows,” he said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his shorts as if he wasn’t standing in front of her with no shirt on. “I know Sanjeev always has extra in here. I need another pillow. Please,” he tacked on with syrupy emphasis.

Dixie’s throat grew dry and gritty. “There aren’t a hundred people on staff who could find you pillows?”

“Unlike you, I don’t want to wake the staff for something as ridiculous as a pillow. I know you’re used to having someone at your beck and call, Powder Puff. I, on the other hand, fend quite nicely for myself and wouldn’t dream of waking them.”

“Look at you here in my room, fending,” she mocked. His insinuation that she was selfish enough to wake an entire household over something as trivial as a hangnail infuriated her. In fairness, it wasn’t exactly an untruth from her past, but it was no less infuriating now in the present.

And that was exactly what Caine wanted. Rather than rise further to his bait, Dixie turned on her heel, hoping the sway of her backside made him salivate just like it used to.

She threw the linen closet door open and peered inside, reaching for the chain to unsuccessfully turn the light on. The bulb was out. For all the fancy, highfalutin’ gadgets Landon had in this house, he’d overlooked the simple things when he’d renovated.

The heavy oak door snapped back at her, smashing into her hip with a hard thud, meaning the spring was broken. Dixie spread her legs to hold it open, using her foot to keep it in place while attempting to adjust her vision to see the interior. The space had a small entry, and was just large enough to house some shelving full of soft, fluffy towels and silken bedding.

The door creaked when Caine came up behind her. Pushing her foot aside, he used his large hands at her waist to move her deeper into the closet. “I asked for a pillow. Not directions to the Fountain of Youth. What’s taking so long?” he questioned, craning his neck upward to glimpse the top shelves.

Distracted by the light press of his fingers and the sting of the fleeting memory when Caine’s hand was never far from hers made her forget about the door. “Don’t let the—”

The door slammed shut behind them with a heavy thud, enveloping them in the quiet, Tide-scented darkness. Caine knocked into her, jolting her forward so her nose just missed the edge of a shelf before righting her with his arms.

Which left his rocklike, warm body pressed tight against her back.

Certainly a dilemma of her libido’s highest order.

Six

“Uh, let the door shut?” Caine finished into her ear, leaving Dixie to fight the shiver his warm breath left in its wake.

Dixie attempted to inch forward and out of his nerve-tingling grasp, but there was nowhere to go. “Impatience be thy name,” she said between the clench of her teeth.

“It’s better than shithead, I guess,” he murmured back.

“Didn’t I mention? Impatience is your middle name.”

“That’s downright mean, Dixie.”

“It’s downright true, Caine.”

“Viper.”

“Mistress Viper to you, thank you very much.” Dixie twisted uncomfortably, bucking against Caine’s hand in the process. “Now quit name-calling and open the door. You know how claustrophobic I am.” Just the thought of how claustrophobic she was made the claustrophobia in her stabby and irritable.

His sigh was a wash of raspy honey in the dark. “Stop wiggling around, woman, and let me—” one hand moved from her waist followed by the sound of the jiggling door handle “—open the damn thing...”

Chalk it up to a long day, but locked in a closet with Caine was the final straw that broke her raw nerves’ back. Though, the fight to keep from having any square inch of her body touching Caine’s worked to distract her fear of the pitch-black closet swallowing her whole. “What is the problem, Caine?” she snapped.

“I can’t—”

“If you use the words can’t and open in the same sentence referring to that doorknob—”

“You’ll what?” he huffed, his chest pushing against her back.

“I’ll suffocate you with one of these fluffy towels.”

She heard him jiggle the door handle again.

“Ready your weapon. I. Can’t.”

Slapping his hand from her waist, Dixie managed to turn around in the tiny space, her nose brushing the springy hairs on his chest. “Let me try.” She twisted the handle, her heart pounding out her body’s awareness of Caine’s. “It’s locked, damn it.”

“Oh, Sherlock, still such a cracker jack,” Caine cooed in another of his flowing British accents.

“Oh, Holmes, still just a sidekick with a big mouth.”

“Move over, Dixie, and let me give it another try.”

Dixie snorted to the tune of the irritation in his tone. “You do that, Hulk. I’ll wait over here in the two square inches of space, cowering weakly so the big, strong man can save me.”

They attempted to switch positions only to find themselves so closely fused their bodies were forced to make contact—delicious, heated, full-bodied contact.

Her slip of a T-shirt left little between them, the material so worn over time it was like having on nothing at all.

“So now what, Dixie-Cup?” he grumbled huskily, his chin brushing the top of her head.

Dixie had to close her eyes to keep from swaying as the comfort of the familiar assaulted her. She would not allow her head to move just a hair forward and rest on his chest.

She gritted her teeth. “Get us out of here before I claw my way past you to get to that door. And stop calling me Dixie-Cup!” Because pettily lashing out was going to make this situation better.

Caine’s fingertips twitched against hers. Knowing him the way she did, she also knew he was smiling into the dark. “But I’ve always called you Dixie-Cup, Dixie-Cup.”

“No. Landon called me Dixie-Cup. You called me a liar.” Dixie’s chest tightened with the familiar constriction of his taunts.

Caine’s fingers wound into the length of her hair, tugging her head back. “You were a liar,” he replied smoothly, yet the edge to his voice was hard...raw.

Rivulets of sweat began to form between her breasts, and she wasn’t sure if it was panic because the closet was hot and suffocating—or because Caine was. Fear of both made her strike out again. “Move, Caine, or I swear I’ll scream!”

His response was to drag her to him, her spine arching, driving her against him, a moan rising to her lips when an aching rush of wet heat grew in her cleft. Her body’s reply to him, to the gruff tug of her hair, and the once familiar command it wrought, infuriated her.

“Go away, Caine. Better yet, go back to Miami.”