Oh, sweet Jesus. I’m touching Boone Thrasher’s naked chest. I hate that I’m freaking out over this, but I tell myself that it wouldn’t matter whose chest it was becauseholy crap, this guy is rock solid.
“Whoa, sugar. I wasn’t trying to piss you off, but it seems like I’m damn good at that anyway.”
Both of my palms are pressed flat against his skin, and in my drunken state, my tongue is way too loose.
“Jesus, you’re built like a beast.”
“No more than you’re built like a bombshell.”
I feel his husky response in all the places I shouldn’t. My nipples harden into deceitful little points, and I’m not even going to give credence to what’s happening elsewhere in my body.
I want to hate him. Everything about him. He shouldn’t make me want to climb him like a mountain to plant a flag at the top sayingRipley was here. No way. No how.
But my body doesn’t get the memo.
Shoving against his chest, I step back, out of the warm circle of his arms. When I spin toward the door, my legs get tangled up and I stumble forward again.
“Shit, girl. How much did you have to drink?”
“Don’t lecture me about drinking. It’s not like I haven’t watched you do it too.”
I try the door, but obviously, it’s locked. I jam my hand into my purse and feel around for my keys, but apparently I take too long.
“For the love of God, woman, let me do it or we’ll be out here all night.”
I snap my head around to glare at him. “You can go anytime.”
“Like I’m going to leave you alone in the dark in this neighborhood. I didn’t go through all this trouble to get you home in one piece to leave you out here to fend for yourself.”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. No one has bothered to give a shit about me up to this point, and I turned out just fine.”
I don’t think about how pathetic my statement is because I’m too worried about digging through my purse. I shake the bag and hear the keys jingle, but for some reason, I can’t put my fingers on them.
Boone snatches the purse from me and produces them in a moment. He shoves them one by one in the door until it opens, and follows me inside.
“What are you doing?” I hear the rustle of Esteban in his cage, but he says nothing, so I assume the parrot is too tired to care.
Boone pulls the door shut and it locks behind him.
“Why are you still here?” I keep my voice hushed just in case Esteban isn’t completely asleep. My question doesn’t come out very friendly, but I cut myself some slack because I’m worried not only about waking up a parrot, but also trying to send my body the message that we don’t like Boone Thrasher and my nipples need to calm down.
My body isstillnot getting the memo.
“I’m here to make sure you don’t break your neck getting upstairs. Come on, wild thing. Let’s put you to bed so I can find mine.”
An image of a half-naked Boone Thrasher laying me down on my old blue quilt, pressing his hard, hot body into mine as he makes me forget the complete shitstorm of my life for a few hours, has my mouth watering.
Sweet baby Jesus. I want him.
Stop, Ripley.
Heat burns low in my belly, and I’m terrified of what I might do if I don’t toss my ass in a cold shower.
“I’m fine.” I spin around and stride toward the light switch.
Except in my drunken state, my coordination isn’t nearly as good as it is in my head, and once again, I find myself pressed up against Boone’s bare chest.
This is so unfair. How am I supposed to hate him when he smells so good, and I could just open my mouth and take a little lick and find out if he tastes as good as he smells ...