Page 25 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

“I’m so glad you find me amusing.” I wanted to pout, and I also wanted to kick him. You’ll notice I was having these violent thoughts, but I did not act on any of them. I’m not a violent person. Vindictive, maybe, but not violent. I’m also not stupid. If I ever get violent with someone, it isn’t going to be a muscular, athletic guy who’s ten inches taller than I am and about ninety pounds heavier, if not more. That’s if I have a choice.

His shoulders began shaking again. “It…it’s just the very idea—”

“That some men believe their partners’ pleasure is more important than their own?” I felt very indignant that he’d be laughing about this. I thought it was a great idea.

He shook his head. “N-no, not that.” He took a deep breath, his green eyes brilliant from mirth and moisture. “It’s just that—You came up with this idea as a way to pay me back because you thought I’d go nuts with frustration.”

“Oh? You mean it won’t bother you at all?” I couldn’t believe him. I know Wyatt, and “horny” is his middle name. Not literally, of course, though wouldn’t that be interesting on his birth certificate?

Lazily he got to his feet, hooking an arm around my waist before I could scoot even farther away. I was slower than usual, because I had to be careful, and he moved with the quick grace of the true athlete. He pulled me close, wrapping his other arm around me, too, and lifted me on my tiptoes so my hips fit right against his. He had a hard-on, of course—big surprise there. The tingles that started zipping through me were no surprise, either.

“It would bother me,” he drawled, “if it happened. Picture this: I’m on top of you. We’re naked. Your legs are around my waist. I’m kissing your neck. I’ve been fucking you for, let’s say, twenty minutes or so.”

Twenty minutes? Man, I need to turn on the air-conditioning, because the temperature in the condo was suddenly too high. My nipples were tingling now, because even though I don’t much like having them touched, they weren’t dead. Most of my parts were tingling. I took this to mean I was in trouble.

He bent his head down so his hot breath washed over my neck as he kissed the hollow below my ear. Somehow I was a little off balance, so I had to cling to his shoulders to stay upright—except that wasn’t really working, because I wasn’t exactly upright, but I just kept on clinging. “You wouldn’t be able tostopme from coming,” he murmured, kissing down the side of my neck. “You wouldn’t eventhinkof it.”

Think of what?I wondered fuzzily, then jerked my wandering mind back on topic. See, this is what he does when we’re fighting, he distracts me with sex. I admit to sometimes deliberately starting an argument because I like the way he fights; I’mnotstupid. The problem is that he uses the same tactics when I’m serious. He likes that I have such a difficult time resisting him, because he isn’t stupid, either. After we’ve been together a couple of years I figure the intensity will fade and we’ll have to find another way to settle our arguments, but until then the best way to fight fire was to set a backfire.

I stopped clinging with one hand, and sent it roaming over his shoulder and down his arm, to his ribs, down some more—slowly, slowly, trailing my fingers, pausing to rub, then finally going for the bull’s-eye. He shuddered as I stroked him through his jeans, his arms tightening around me.

“God almighty,” he said in a strained voice, stopping his assault on my neck as he concentrated on my assault on him. He hadn’t had any relief in a few days, and I figured he was more needy than I was, especially considering how generous he’d been with me the day before.

Yes, if I were fair-minded, I’d either give him the same relief or stop teasing him. Get real.

Probably our game of tease would have stopped being a game and we’d have ended up in bed—or on the couch—having the most careful, nonjostling sex we could manage, if his cell phone hadn’t rung. He had it set to a real, old-fashioned ring-ring sound, just like an ordinary phone, and in my dazed state I thought my home phone was ringing. I fully intended to ignore it, but instead of continuing with what he was doing he immediately released me and pulled the phone from his belt.

The worst thing about being involved with a cop is the hours. No, the worst thing would be if he’d been on the street and in constant danger, but Wyatt was a lieutenant, which meant he wasn’t involved in any dangerous stuff any longer—thank God—but it also meant he was on call just about all the time. Our city isn’t a hotbed of crime, but still he got called out, on average, three or four nights a week. Weekends were no exception.

“Bloodsworth,” he said in a slightly clipped accent, the result of his years spent playing football up North, his attention already completely focused on the situation being related to him. I started to move away from him and he caught my wrist, holding me in place. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t completely focused.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he finally said, and closed the flip-top on the phone.

“Hold my place,” he told me, bending his head to give me a firm, warm kiss that involved some tongue. “When I get back, I want to pick up where we left off.” Then he was gone, firmly closing the front door behind him. A few seconds later I heard the Avalanche roar to life and the wheels bark a little as he shot away from the curb.

Sighing, I went over to the door and locked it. Without him here distracting me, maybe I could think of some way to simplify my immediate future. Breaking a leg might work, because then the wedding would be put off until the cast was gone. Breakinghisleg sounded even better. But I’d had enough of pain; I wanted to concentrate on the good stuff, on getting married, settling into our routine together, having a family.

Instead I had to concentrate on playing marriage counselor, a job for which I wasn’t remotely qualified.

Manipulation, on the other hand…a little emotional blackmail here, a little guilt there…I could do that.

I called Mom. “Where’s Jazz living now?” I asked. I didn’t explain the problem to her—she was, after all, Sally’s best friend. This was between Wyatt and me, our own private bone of contention.

“With Luke,” Mom replied. Luke is the third Arledge son. The kids were refusing to take sides, which was annoying Sally and Jazz, who both felt misunderstood and completely justified in their actions. “I gather Jazz is putting a crimp in Luke’s style.”

Luke was also the wildest of the Arledge bunch. I don’t mean wild as in drugs and getting into trouble, I mean wild as in definitely not tamed, uninterested in settling down, and with a social life that should have already caused permanent damage to his back. He wouldn’t be at all happy to have his father living with him.

Why on earth had Jazz picked Luke to live with? Any of his children would have opened their homes to him. Matthew and Mark were both married and had families, but they also each had guest bedrooms, so the arrangement wouldn’t have been horrible. John, the youngest, was working toward his master’s degree and lived in a rented house with two other graduate students, so maybe living with him wouldn’t have been so great. Tammy had been married about a year, and she and her husband had a large house in the country, but no children, so there was plenty of room there.

On the other hand, if Jazz wanted to make Sally fret about what he might be doing, living with Luke was the way to do it.

That gave me hope, because if Jazz was trying to make Sally jealous, then he hadn’t walked away from the marriage. He was mad as hell, though.

Luke would be more than willing to help, I thought. If Jazz was cramping his style, he’d want his father out of there, and what better way to accomplish that than by helping me? I was doing a good thing here; who wouldn’t want to help?

I looked up Luke’s number in the phone book, then thought better of the idea and called Tammy instead. Caller ID makes being sneaky more complicated, and I didn’t want Jazz to see my name on Luke’s phone. Therefore, I needed his cell number.

When Tammy answered I explained what I was trying to do—though not why—and she thought it was a good idea. “God knowswehaven’t been able to get anything accomplished,” she said wearily, meaning her and her brothers. “Mom and Dad are so stubborn, it’s been like beating my head against the wall. Good luck.” She gave me Luke’s cell number, we chatted for a while longer about the different arguments that had been used against her wayward parents, then hung up.

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