Make Mine a Bad Boy

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“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hope said as her gaze remained locked on the water cascading down the windshield.            

Colt slid closer, blocking her view with miles of wet, black t-shirt.  She now understood why men were so enthralled with wet t-shirt contests.  Wet cotton made for some mouth-watering fantasies.  Especially when shrink wrapped to the hard, chiseled body in front of her.

As her gaze got stuck on the tiny beaded nipples topping each perfectly-sculptured pec, her breathing grew uneven.  The seat was big enough that she could move back.  Except a strange paralysis had settled over her, and she couldn’t move if she wanted to.  Especially when his hand came to rest on the steering wheel and his other on the back of her neck.  A chill spread through her body, which brought his droopy-lidded gaze sliding down her soaked dress.

“Sure you do,” he whispered as his breath wafted over her face.  It smelled of mint toothpaste and cool rain.  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.  Sophomore year behind the girl’s locker room.”

Hope closed her eyes and tried to get a handle on her suddenly topsy-turvy world, but lack of vision only made matters worse when a hot hand skated up her bare leg.  Her eyes flashed open as she grabbed his wrist.

“Stop.”  She tried to sound firm, but only came out sounding needy.  She cleared her throat.  “I mean it, Colt.”  Except it didn’t really sound like she meant it. 

Those sensual gray eyes stared back at her from beneath lowered lids.  “Come on, honey,” he coaxed as his fingers caressed the spot right above her knee.  “Just a little peek.”  He leaned over, and his cheek brushed against hers, not as prickly as it had been in jail but prickly enough to cause more chill bumps.  “I promise not to tell a single soul—I never did.”

The man knew exactly what to say.  Always had.  If he took a notion, he could tempt a nun from her habit.  And Hope was no nun.  Just a sex-deprived sinner who couldn’t remember a scripture to save her soul.  She could count on one hand the times she’d had sex in the last year, so how could she fend off a desperado like Colt Lomax?  A naughty outlaw who had no scruples about cornering her in an old Chevy while water cascaded down the windows like the best carwash fantasy she’d ever had?       

So she gave in.  Just a little.  Just enough to let her eyes close in surrender.  Just enough to lean into the mouth that trailed kisses down her neck.  Just enough to loosen the grip she had on his hand. 

But she refused to let it go.  She might be sex-deprived, but she wasn’t stupid.  Although that didn’t seem to stop his fingers from moving.  In fact, her hand just went along for the ride, clinging tight to his wrist as he stoked a line of fire up her thigh.  He caught the damp material of her dress on the way up, baring her legs to the chill of the air and the warmth of his fingers.  Fingers that hesitated for a brief heart-dropping second before skating over the satiny softness of her panties.

She moaned and pulled back, needing air in the worst possible way.  Releasing his hold on her neck, he allowed her the freedom, his gaze settling on her mouth for a moment before dropping down to the quivering need between her legs.  He stared for sizzling seconds—a full mind-blowing minute.

“I have to say,” his voice came out even more husky than normal as a finger flicked over her most quivery part of all.  “I might even like these better than the cotton heart ones you wore in high school.”  He inched the dress even higher, until part of her stomach and hipbones were bared to his greedy gray eyes.  His gaze returned to hers, all heat and desire. 

            “You want to get real naughty, Baby?”         

            When put that way.

            She did. 

            She really did.