Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [46]
His smile was faint. “Now, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m a hell of a lot better than Paul ever was, and I’m prepared to demonstrate. Just start unbuttoning that sweater. You’re wearing enough clothes that it’s going to take a good, long time, so you may as well begin.”
“We’re not doing anything. You’re going to step away from me and I’m going to leave this place. I’m going to get my shoes or your shoes or any damned pair of shoes I can find and walk straight out the door and not ever come back.”
“No, you aren’t. You’d have to get around me to leave, and I’m not ready to move.”
“So you’re going to force me?” Her voice shook, just slightly. He’d think it was from the cold. Maybe it was.
He shook his head. “Don’t have to,” he murmured. “Do I?”
He reached out for the top button of her sweater. The layers of clothing kept his hands far away from her flesh, and she simply stood there, frozen, hands at her sides, and let him unbutton the long cardigan. Let him pull it off her shoulders, down her arms and onto the floor. Then he reached for the hem of her sweatshirt, pulling it, and she had no choice but to raise her arms and let him pull it over her head. It fell on top of the cardigan, at her bare feet.
She was half blind with fear, but she wasn’t going to cry. Not for some damned man, not ever again. “This time I’d press charges,” she said in an even voice. “You think I wouldn’t? I’m older and smarter now, and I’m saying no. I’m saying get your goddamn hands off me.”
“I’m not touching you,” he said absently, taking the hem of her outer T-shirt and pulling it over her head. One more T-shirt to go, then a camisole and bra. And then skin. “I can’t even figure out why I want to bother. It’s not like I can’t have all the ass I want, when I want it. It’s always been that way. Women like me.”
“Terrific. Go find one that does.” He was pulling the last T-shirt off, and she considered locking her elbows to keep him from pulling it over her head. But then he might touch her, and she couldn’t bear it if he did.
“Most of the women I know would be asleep at this hour. You’ll have to do.” He stepped back a fraction of an inch, just to look at her. The lavender silk camisole had been a secret indulgence, not meant for anyone’s eyes but her own. The skimpy bra beneath it was even worse. She’d thought that if she ever were tempted, ever found a man attractive enough to risk everything, then she’d wear the lavender silk from Victoria’s Secret. So why the hell did she bring it along with her on this trip to see Dillon Gaynor?
“Nice,” he murmured. He leaned forward, his voice at her ear. “You smell like cinnamon.”
“You smell like axle grease,” she shot back.
“It has all sorts of uses, if you want to try it that way.”
There was no way she could disguise her utter horror. It didn’t help when he laughed. “You should see your expression, princess. I was kidding.” He waited long enough for her to relax, marginally, before he added, “Besides, I’ve got much better stuff upstairs.”
She’d thought she was as far back from him as she could go, but at that moment she slammed up against the side of the Cadillac.
He reached down for the waistband of her skirt, unfastened the zipper and let it drop around her feet. She was still wearing a pair of jeans, but it wasn’t enough. She could have worn a HazMat suit and it wouldn’t be enough.
He leaned down and blew, ever so gently, on her stomach, his breath warm and moist. In another place, at another time, it might have been erotic. It almost was, even in these horrible circumstances.
He straightened up and put his hands on either side of her waist, holding her. “Now I’m touching you,” he said. “You knew I would sooner or later. Tell me no again.”
“No. Again.”
He slid his fingers inside the top of the waistband, then slid them around to the front button. “I don’t know why I bother,” he said, half to himself. The button flicked open almost by itself, and she stared down at his hands, fascinated. Waiting for him to reach for the zipper. “Virgins were never my thing.