The Care and Feeding of Unmarried Men by Christie Ridgway Page B

himself to hold still as she slid her arms around his neck. By pure instinct, his hands cupped her bottom, and now that they were there it would have been a waste not to appreciate the round, firm curves.
    Wasn’t there anything about this woman that wasn’t all-out, over-the-top, more-than-her-fair-share spectacular?
    His cock battled his zipper to answer that one.
    And she glanced down as if she knew. Of course she knew, he thought, watching the satisfied smile that curved the corners of her mouth. “You are trouble,” he murmured.
    â€œBut not too much for you to handle, right?”
    This was a game to her. But hell, he’d started it, so he squeezed her butt. “I seem to be handling it just fine, don’t you think?”
    â€œLet’s put that to a little test.” She pulled his head closer.
    He resisted. Frowning, she tugged harder, but he was as strong as a bull and didn’t budge.
    Her sky-blues met his eyes in surprise. “Don’t you want to kiss me, Nash?”
    â€œNo.” It was the honest truth.
    â€œNo?—” She broke off as her gaze jerked over his shoulder. “Oh, God.”
    In his arms, he felt her body tremble. “What?”
    â€œOh, God,” she muttered. “Oh, God, can this day get any worse?”
    He tried turning his head to see what she did, but she caught his jaw in one very cold hand. “Listen tome,” she said, all signs of tipsiness gone. Her voice was clear and crisp, as if she’d been slapped to alertness.
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œIn a minute, you’re going to kiss me. Then you’re going to pick me up and walk me out of here. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not pay any attention to the pair of men loitering in the doorway.”
    â€œWhich one am I specifically not paying attention to?”
    She didn’t question how he knew. “The younger, dark-haired one who is channeling his inner Chili Palmer.”
    So it was a gangsterish, Travolta look-alike he was shielding her from. And shielding was the operative word, he knew, because another tremor shook her body.
    â€œOn the count of three,” she whispered. “One…two…”
    Hairs leaped high on the back of Nash’s neck. He didn’t wait for three.

Chapter Seven
    â€œDon’t Ask Me No Questions”
    Lynyrd Skynyrd
    Second Helping (1974)
    E ve’s mouth was softer and hotter than Nash had ever imagined. And despite himself, over the last forty-eight hours of their acquaintance he’d been imagining it a lot. “God,” he murmured against her lips. With his hands on her ass, he pulled her closer, and his thighs clamped hard onto hers.
    He swept his tongue along her lower lip. Through both their shirts he felt her nipples tighten and another tremor shake her body.
    Because of his kiss…or because of Chili?
    She was playing this for the man in the doorway, he reminded himself, or for some game of her own. With that in mind, he eased his hold on her. She didn’t take him up on the hint, though. Instead, she speared her fingers in the back of his hair and pressed her sweet little tongue into his mouth.
    A fire ignited in his belly and he yanked her to him again, her nipples now as hard as his cock. She slanted her head to change the fit of the kiss and then he took over, sliding into her mouth so that he filled her the way the rest of his body was aching to do.
    She trembled again, and he didn’t let it stop him from savoring her mouth, her wet heat, the almost-pornographic pleasure of those showstopping tits against his pecs and that perfect ass against his palms. But she wasn’t protesting; instead, she was melting against him, like soft butter spread on hot toast.
    He had to get her naked.
    The imperative need of that thought shocked him free of the sexual haze. This kiss wasn’t for real. Looping his thumbs in her back pockets, he jerked her away and lifted