One Wild Wedding Night_ Getaway - Leslie Kelly [14]
She wanted low lighting and an excuse to demand body heat.
“I’ll get a fire going.” Dean lifted some logs from a pile by the hearth and put them in the woodstove. “You hanging in?”
“Yes.”
And she was. Remarkably, she really was. If anybody had told her twenty-four hours ago that she’d be spending the night in a rustic cabin in the middle of nowhere with Dean Willis, she’d have asked what they’d been smoking. But it was true, she was here…for the next thirty-six hours, at least.
The question returned: what shall we do to fill our time?
Those condoms were singing a siren’s song from her purse.
“Why don’t you just go to bed?” Dean asked, not looking up at her. “There’s a futon in the loft. I can take the sofa.”
Bridget shook her head. “I’m not leaving this woodstove.”
“Heat rises, it’ll be fine up there in a half hour.”
Lowering herself to the edge of the plush, dark leather sofa, she smiled sweetly. “Then I’ll wait a half hour.”
He mumbled something under his breath but she ignored him. Bridget watched his every move, knowing he had to feel her hot stare on him but not really giving a damn. The man was so powerful, the thick muscles in his arms and chest flexing and rippling beneath his long-sleeved black shirt as he worked. He was also so obviously uncomfortable around her. All because she’d made her intentions clear.
In Bridget’s opinion, it was about time someone did. Because Dean certainly hadn’t. Not when he’d been pretending to be Mr. Nice. And not tonight, when he’d grabbed her and bolted.
“So what is it you plan to do with me?” she asked, both because she wanted to know and because she liked the way the tips of his ears turned red when she said something outrageous. Asking him what he planned to do with her—with the emphasis on the word do—probably sounded outrageous to his strict FBI ears.
“I’m going to sit on you here until Monday morning, deliver you to the courthouse, watch you testify, then let you go.”
She knew what he meant but played dumb. Smiling as she leaned over from the couch, knowing her red gown gapped away from her chest, she murmured, “Sit on me? Sounds uncomfortable.”
Dean, who’d been squatting as he stuck bits of kindling into the woodstove, jerked his head up and stared at her. His eyes blazed with more intensity than the struggling flames and his mouth pulled taut. “Just what is it you’re trying to do here, Bridget?” he asked, sounding not only angry but intensely curious. As if he truly didn’t know.
How could he not know? Was he really ignorant to the fact that she was absolutely dying for him? Would give anything to have him, if only for a few hours?
Maybe. And if so, she really ought not to keep him in the dark any longer. So without another word, Bridget rose to her feet. She reached around to the back of her dress, slowly drawing the zipper down, letting the sleeves loosen and slip off her shoulders until the tops of her breasts were gradually revealed.
With a gulp of air for courage, she let the gown go, until it dropped to the floor at her feet.
“I’m trying,” she finally replied, “to finish what you started that day last August.”
* * *
Though the air hadn’t changed and he hadn’t moved a muscle, Dean began to sink down under an almost tangible weight on his entire body. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, could only sit in shocked silence while Bridget let her wicked red dress fall away. Beneath it she wore even more wicked lingerie. Skimpy, tiny panties, wickedly seductive stockings and a red demibra that, as she’d threatened in the car, plumped her luscious breasts up rather than making any effort to cover them.
His hands clenched into fists and his mouth went dry. The heat blasting every inch of him had nothing to do with the fire he’d just started in the woodstove. And