Blame It on Paris by Jennifer Greene Page B

naked in a snowstorm. He was that wiped. His eyelids were too tired to open.
    But Kelly was still talking.
    â€œOkay,” she said. “So self-discipline didn’t work for us. Or denial. Or pretending this wasn’t going to happen again. Or guilt. And I know you don’t do guilt, Will, but I do. And it doesn’t seem to make a lick of difference. I still want to be here, right here. With you.”
    He managed to find the energy to open one eye. “Do you have to sound so miserable?”
    â€œI’m not miserable. That’s the whole problem.” She shifted on top of him, her elbows digging into his shoulders, using his body for her own personal mattress. But then she bent down and kissed him. And even though willie was wiped, even though he was too tired to breathe, he felt her soft skin from breast to tummy to thighs, layered against him. As if she had the right. As if he did.
    When she lifted her head, her lips still just inches from his, she murmured, “You know what you taste like?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHot sex. Love. Wonder. Magic.” She sighed. “I can feel him. You’d think he’d be tired by now.”
    â€œHe is, he is.”
    â€œYeah, right.” She let out a long-suffering sigh, but there was something in her eyes. A gleam. A wickedness. The way she wiggled her hips was hardly the act of an inhibited, guilt-ridden, goody-good kind of woman. And then she took a nip out of his neck. Not a big one. Not drawing blood or anything like that. Just a nip. With her teeth, then her lips, then her tongue. She whispered, “You’d better hold on to the headboard, because I think this could be a real rough ride.”
    He said primly, “I don’t do bondage with women I barely know.”
    â€œYou’d do bondage with any woman who’d let you get away with it,” she corrected him.
    Well, hell, she already had his number. There was no point in fighting with her, when making love with her was so much more fun.
    Â 
    W HEN THE ALARM CLOCK BUZZED at seven, the word work entered Will’s brain…welcomed on a par with tetanus shots, cavities, the flu. It couldn’t be Monday morning. It just couldn’t be.
    He pried open one bleary eye. Then the other.
    There seemed to be a naked woman standing in front of him, holding a steaming mug of coffee. Hazelnut. He could smell it. He lurched out of the bed, nose-first, realizing at that instant that he was hopelessly in love.
    The first sip of joe confirmed it. “I can forgive a woman anything who makes outstanding coffee,” he told her.
    â€œOh, good. Then you don’t mind if I empty out your bank accounts, trash your place and decorate your living room pink?”
    â€œYou’re going to still make the coffee, though, right?”
    She chuckled. There was no way, no possible way, she could be this perky. Neither had had any sleep. Her hair was messy, and she was sashaying around the room naked as if she had the cutest boobs, the sassiest butt, the skinniest legs this side of the Atlantic.
    Which she did.
    Damn, but she did.
    â€œWhat’d you do with all your Catholic guilt?” he asked her a few minutes later…which was after a shower, after he’d finished the first cup, after he’d yanked on a starched shirt and pants and found—ye gods—breakfast waiting for him in the minikitchen.
    â€œIt hasn’t disappeared. I just figured this whole thing out.”
    â€œUh-oh.” He didn’t mean to say that aloud, but it slipped out. He wasn’t thinking that coherently when he saw her lift the skillet and plop a light, fluffy omelet on a plate for him.
    â€œI’m just going to be part of your life until the money gets all straightened out. And my passport. The stuff I have to have to survive again.”
    â€œAnd then…” He motioned, waiting for the next part.
    But apparently there was no next part.