her jaw. “I don’t date. I fuck. When and how I feel like it.”
She’d have been kinder to pick up one of her screwdrivers and stick him between the ribs. Least then the hurt would stay in one place. If he walked out with a no, she’d have a stronger one for him next time he asked. She’d be a cautionary tale he told himself on nights alone, his arms folded behind his head as he practiced blanket denials. No, he’d never wanted her. No, he hadn’t fantasized more with her from the moment she’d flipped him a granola bar.
Goddammit. He’d offer her everything if she’d fucking take it—and she refused to take him seriously. Might as well call him a liar. “So you’re just—”
“The word ‘slut’ passes your lips”—four flying steps brought her right up in his face—“and you best haul your ass outside before I kick it there.” Puffing sweet-cherry breath, probably owing to the pack of chewing gum on her desk, she squinched her face in tight lines. “One orgasm isn’t going to melt my brain.”
A harsher synonym sprang up out of spite, and he buttoned the slur down like every ill-advised retort to a senior officer. Not what he intended to say in the first place, and damn her for thinking he would. “I told you I’m not playing little-boy games, Katherine. Name-calling is the shitty behavior of a boy pouting over what he’s not getting. Knowing what you want and asking for it doesn’t make you a slut.”
By force of will, he kept his voice level. If she had the sense and guts to ask him, she had the guts to ask any man and replace him quick as a summer storm.
Dating and sex had always been a dance, and everyone knew men led and women followed. The currents had shifted in the decades since Dad had sat him down and polished off half a case of beer before giving him the man talk in the backyard. Different expectations. Different beliefs. The changing times or the wisdom of a man who’d spent twenty-two years in the hunt, who the fuck knew anymore? He floated on unsteady ground with her, waiting for a rogue wave to wipe him out.
Dipping her head, she eased off. “No, you’re right. I jumped to a conclusion I shouldn’t have. I get touchy about staking out boundaries.”
A fact to add to the short list of infobits he had on her. One of the great mysteries of the universe, how he cared so damn much with such limited data. Yeah, he knew her determination and strength, her grace and kindness to customers. The rightness as she came in his arms. But he couldn’t lay claim to basic details. Her age. Her family. Where she lived.
She shrugged. “A lotta guys, you let one thing slide, and the world becomes fair game. I’m just—” Rolling her neck, she popped a joint. “A mite bit tense.”
Eyebrow cocked, he pitched his voice low. “I thought we took care of your tension.” Not his, though their argument had knocked him back to a manageable semi. Much as he enjoyed her fire and her fiery demands, what if his Surfer Boy antics doused her? Fire and water didn’t mix. He might never have more than this from her.
“One kind, very well.” She shot him a wry, kissable grin. “A woman who can’t invent a dozen ways to think herself tense in under a minute isn’t a woman at all, right? I figured a man of your advanced years would know that rule by heart.”
“My advanced years?” Clutching his chest, he staggered back from her teasing barrage. “How old do you think I am?”
With her hands shoved in her back pockets, she rocked on her toes. “Thirty-four?”
“Thirty-seven. Let’s go with your number instead. Dare I ask a woman’s age?” Not too young, please God. “Or should I know that rule by now, too?”
Elbows bent out, head cocked, freckled cheeks shining—Christ, she impersonated a college kid but for her grown-woman skills and confidence. “Twenty-eight.”
Close enough for government work. Halle-freaking-lujah. Swooping in on anyone under twenty-five came with
She’d have been kinder to pick up one of her screwdrivers and stick him between the ribs. Least then the hurt would stay in one place. If he walked out with a no, she’d have a stronger one for him next time he asked. She’d be a cautionary tale he told himself on nights alone, his arms folded behind his head as he practiced blanket denials. No, he’d never wanted her. No, he hadn’t fantasized more with her from the moment she’d flipped him a granola bar.
Goddammit. He’d offer her everything if she’d fucking take it—and she refused to take him seriously. Might as well call him a liar. “So you’re just—”
“The word ‘slut’ passes your lips”—four flying steps brought her right up in his face—“and you best haul your ass outside before I kick it there.” Puffing sweet-cherry breath, probably owing to the pack of chewing gum on her desk, she squinched her face in tight lines. “One orgasm isn’t going to melt my brain.”
A harsher synonym sprang up out of spite, and he buttoned the slur down like every ill-advised retort to a senior officer. Not what he intended to say in the first place, and damn her for thinking he would. “I told you I’m not playing little-boy games, Katherine. Name-calling is the shitty behavior of a boy pouting over what he’s not getting. Knowing what you want and asking for it doesn’t make you a slut.”
By force of will, he kept his voice level. If she had the sense and guts to ask him, she had the guts to ask any man and replace him quick as a summer storm.
Dating and sex had always been a dance, and everyone knew men led and women followed. The currents had shifted in the decades since Dad had sat him down and polished off half a case of beer before giving him the man talk in the backyard. Different expectations. Different beliefs. The changing times or the wisdom of a man who’d spent twenty-two years in the hunt, who the fuck knew anymore? He floated on unsteady ground with her, waiting for a rogue wave to wipe him out.
Dipping her head, she eased off. “No, you’re right. I jumped to a conclusion I shouldn’t have. I get touchy about staking out boundaries.”
A fact to add to the short list of infobits he had on her. One of the great mysteries of the universe, how he cared so damn much with such limited data. Yeah, he knew her determination and strength, her grace and kindness to customers. The rightness as she came in his arms. But he couldn’t lay claim to basic details. Her age. Her family. Where she lived.
She shrugged. “A lotta guys, you let one thing slide, and the world becomes fair game. I’m just—” Rolling her neck, she popped a joint. “A mite bit tense.”
Eyebrow cocked, he pitched his voice low. “I thought we took care of your tension.” Not his, though their argument had knocked him back to a manageable semi. Much as he enjoyed her fire and her fiery demands, what if his Surfer Boy antics doused her? Fire and water didn’t mix. He might never have more than this from her.
“One kind, very well.” She shot him a wry, kissable grin. “A woman who can’t invent a dozen ways to think herself tense in under a minute isn’t a woman at all, right? I figured a man of your advanced years would know that rule by heart.”
“My advanced years?” Clutching his chest, he staggered back from her teasing barrage. “How old do you think I am?”
With her hands shoved in her back pockets, she rocked on her toes. “Thirty-four?”
“Thirty-seven. Let’s go with your number instead. Dare I ask a woman’s age?” Not too young, please God. “Or should I know that rule by now, too?”
Elbows bent out, head cocked, freckled cheeks shining—Christ, she impersonated a college kid but for her grown-woman skills and confidence. “Twenty-eight.”
Close enough for government work. Halle-freaking-lujah. Swooping in on anyone under twenty-five came with
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