Wild And Wicked

Now all he could think about were those ultrafeminine undergarments and what it might be like to peel them from Kyra’s body.

Her invitation to take her for a ride had paralyzed him for a heart-pounding five seconds. Jesse had zero experience turning down those kinds of invitations. Having realized at an early age that he was too restless to settle down, too much like his old man to tie himself to any one woman, Jesse had carefully constructed a reputation for himself as a player. With that legend-in-his-own-time aura preceding him, no woman would ever be surprised by his lack of commitment.

And in turn, he’d never disappoint anyone.

But the strategy that had worked like a charm for ten years was unraveling in a big way. First, Greta staunchly ignored all the hype about him and—according to what she’d told him earlier this afternoon—she’d sold her Miami Beach condo for an apartment in Tampa.

Now Kyra was suggesting a fling he couldn’t afford to take any part in.

No matter how much his body screamed at him otherwise.

Bringing the bike to a stop a few feet from Kyra’s long, low-slung ranch house, Jesse willed away all provocative thoughts as he disengaged himself from her. He needed a cool head to talk her out of the big mistake she seemed determined to make.

She slid from the bike with the fluid movements of a woman who’d ridden horses all her life. Odd that he’d never noticed the quiet grace and strength about her before.

“Come on inside and I’ll get you a drink,” she offered, slipping her helmet from her head to place it gently on the seat.

Jesse stared in her wake as she sauntered up the flagstone path toward the front door, her lace-up boots clicking a follow-me tempo. He’d been too caught up in her new subtle politeness to ride off into the sunset on his bike while he had the chance.

Shit.

How could he just leave without even saying goodbye? He found his feet trailing after her before his mind consciously made the decision to go inside the house.

She’d left the door open wide into the cool, sprawling home he’d helped her build on a patch of the Crooked Branch property five years ago. The mish-mash of Spanish influenced stucco archways, miniature Italian courtyards and contemporary architecture had been the first house he’d ever custom-designed from scratch and he continued to be proud of it in the years since his skills had improved tenfold. The house was so uniquely suited to Kyra he couldn’t picture anyone else ever living here.

He’d always felt at home here before. Today he had the impression of a fly venturing farther into a silken, sweetly scented web.

One quick goodbye and he was out of here.

“Kyra?” He didn’t see her right away as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting indoors. The sound of the refrigerator door thudding shut called him toward the kitchen.

She stood at the triangular island in the center of the room, tipping a longneck bottle of Mexican beer to her lips. A few damp tendrils of blond hair clung to her neck from the warmth of the day.

He’d worked side-by-side with her for years and not once had the sight of perspiration on her forehead turned him on. Was he so freaking shallow that all she had to do was slide into fishnet hose to make him start salivating?

Before he could fully form and analyze a response to that question—let alone say goodbye—Kyra set her beer on the kitchen counter with a clang.

Foam rose up in the throat of the bottle to bubble over onto the granite surface around her sink, but Jesse was too mesmerized by the sight of her strutting into the hallway to do anything about it.

Something about the take-no-shit attitude of her walk told him she meant business. He’d seen that determined stride of hers before when she was dealing with shifty horse sellers or uncooperative studs.

And he had the feeling he wasn’t going to fare any better against the will of this woman than the men who’d been forced to give her a good price on her horses or the studs who procreated when and where she wanted them to.

As a matter of fact, he felt his own desire to play stud rising to the surface in a hurry.

“Kyra, I don’t think—” was as much as he managed before she came toe-to-toe with him in the hall lit with flickering electric sconces intended to look like candles along both walls.

Jesse didn’t realize he was backing up until his butt connected with the stucco wall behind him. Her hands materialized on his chest as if to hold him in place.

He could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest half-exposed by her low-cut white blouse. His gaze seemed stuck on that creamy white flesh no matter how desperately his brain sought to unglue his eyes.

But then his brain had a full-time job simply willing his hands to ignore the overwhelming temptation to touch Kyra.

When her lips touched his, he lost the battle.

Sensation exploded through him at the brush of her soft mouth. There was a sweet taste to her that even the beer couldn’t hide, and he drank her in like water, swirling his tongue with hers in an effort to savor every nuance.

His hand moved to her shoulder, powerless to remain immobile any longer. He molded the delicate skin of her collarbone, his thumb dipping down to the gentle swell of her breast above the neckline of her blouse.

And then it was as if someone had tossed gasoline on the fire of his want for her. Heat exploded inside him in time with that touch, burning through him with a fierce desire to scoop her up and walk her into the bedroom he knew was at the back of the house.

He could only think about laying her down and unfastening the laces that held the leather garment together. About seeing the perfect breasts she’d been hiding from him her whole life.

She moaned low in her throat as she edged her way closer to him, settling those delectable breasts against the insubstantial cotton of his tank shirt. The beaded peaks rasping over his chest tantalized him to touch.

To taste.

It’s just a kiss. He repeated the lie over and over again in his mind, needing to give himself permission to hold her, to indulge this fantasy come to life for just a few minutes.

Her sunny scent wrapped around him with renewed strength as their body temperatures soared. The stucco wall scraped into his back, a discomfort he barely acknowledged while in counterpoint to the lush softness of Kyra plastered to his front.

Soft blond hair tickled his arm where it wrapped around her back, teased his nose when he bent to kiss her neck and taste her warm skin.

“Jesse,” she sighed as she tipped her head back, granting him free reign over her body.

He smoothed a hand down her arm and over her hip as he kissed her neck down to one shoulder. The feel of the leather corset in his hand called him back to the place where a neat bow held her outfit together.

If this was just a kiss, he wouldn’t go there.

If this was just a kiss, he’d sure as hell never untie those ribbon-thin leather straps and free the breasts he wanted so damn badly.

But with the encouragement of her hips wriggling against his own, Jesse tugged one end of the bow until the laces slid free. He told himself he would be content just to look. One glimpse of those breasts and he was out of here.

Then his gaze connected with Kyra’s in the moody, flickering hallway light. Perhaps his intentions were written in some small facet of his expression because she grabbed one of his hands and laid it to rest on her breast, catapulting him into major meltdown mode. The peaked nipple lined up perfectly between his thumb and forefinger as if to beg for his touch.

“Come with me,” she whispered, never releasing his hand as she backed up a step.

Oh, how he wanted to.

He wanted nothing better than to come with her about ten times before morning. To make her hot, wet and mindless for him.

But to take advantage of Kyra’s momentary lapse of judgment would be the equivalent of hurting her, sooner or later. Besides, he could somehow still believe himself redeemable if he didn’t seduce his own best friend.

Hissing a sigh between his teeth, he had to face up to that fact. “I can’t do this.”

Of all the rules he’d broken in his life, Kyra Stafford was one line he had promised himself he would never, ever cross.

THE FINISH LINE loomed ten feet away in the form of her bedroom, but Kyra sensed she wouldn’t be clearing that threshold soon enough.