Page 16 of Wild Card

Fire that would burn her, if she let it.

Deeply.

She had to think fast. If he touched her again, she’d be toast. Wasn’t that what happened to self-control already as weak as soggy bread?

“All right.” She whipped the clothes off the hook. Shoved them against his chest. “So go ahead and try.”

“Errr…try what?”

“To make me faint.” She dipped a glance at the fabric in his clutch. “Put ’em on, hot stuff. Give me a little advance fashion show.”

And cover up that body, so I don’t keep thinking of every illicit thing I want to do to it.

One side of his mouth twitched, as if that exact line echoed in his brain. Though he pulled the shirt off its hanger then stabbed his arms into the sleeves, his stare didn’t leave her face. He kept watching, lips quirking, as he buttoned it. Didn’t relent as he slipped on the vest, then wrapped the kilt around his lean hips. Once the snaps were locked, he smoothed the whole outfit into place—then swept a gallant bow.

After he rose, he chuckled. Jen didn’t laugh. How could she, when her lungs desperately rationed breath? She attempted to school her features but was certain she looked ridiculous, fighting a suddenly dry throat, blood that had become the River Styx, and a womb clenching so hard she trembled.

She needed to jump at him. On him. To mold every inch of her naked body against his and beg him to slam her to the floor, hike the kilt up, then fuck her like the self-respecting Scot he was.

She swallowed it all back in favor of one sparse rasp. “Damn.”

“Changin’ your mind about the plaid obsession, eh?”

“Ssshhh.” She pushed three fingers against his lips. “With you looking like all my wet dreams, I can’t handle you sounding like them too.”

He twisted his head enough to capture her middle finger between his lips. Then again, so his tongue slid to the crevice at its bottom. As Jen gasped, he whispered, “Did you just mention wet dreams while standing here like that?”

Shit.

She glanced down. She’d been so absorbed in his regal perfection in those clothes, she’d forgotten about her lack of any. Only through sheer force of will did she make her body stiffen as he jerked her close, abrading her thighs with the wool of his kilt, caressing her breasts with the slick luxury of his vest. “Maybe it’s time I got dressed, too.”

“Or maybe it’s just time for me to get in the skuddy again.”

He hadn’t taught her that one yet, but she suspected it involved more nakedness. Couldn’t happen. Wouldn’t. If she got bare and horizontal again with this man, a lot more than sleep and peace of mind would be at stake. Just once in the sack had shown Jen that Sam’s fly-by in her life could take on more meaning than friendship. Where would that leave her life once he was gone? Empty as a used can of Pringles, that was where. And her heart? The pathetic crumbled bits, forgotten at the bottom.

Uh-uh.

Best to leave everything right here. He already looked as perfect as the pages of a book. That was the perfect way to remember everything about tonight. It wasn’t a Happy-ever-after. But it was a hell of a lot better than Pringle’s dregs.

She forced strength into her arms. Reached up to push at both of his massive shoulders, hoping he’d shift back.

He did, thank God.

But not far enough.

She still felt too much of him, so huge and hard and defined. She still smelled him, cedar and spice joined by the starch in his shirt and the musk of his skin.

God, she still wanted him. So damn badly.

“No.” She almost didn’t get it out. “No. You can’t. We can’t.”

He blinked as if she’d slapped him. “Why not?” Then pushed out a hard breath, as well. “Fuck. I did hurt you, and now—”

She smacked the middle of his chest. “Don’t make me hurt you, Mackenna.” She gentled her touch, running fingers down the front of his vest. “I’ll never forget everything we did. Everything. It was…” She let a dreamy sigh slip out. “Wonderful.”

He smiled. Brushed his lips across the tip of her nose. “Yes. It was.”

“So let’s keep it there, okay? At the wonderful. Friends who got to enjoy a damn nice benefit.” She bit her lip, attempting to keep a smile—losing to a wince anyway. “Fate doesn’t like it when you ask for too many benefits. It starts to want payment for the privilege…in other ways.”

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