Still Lake - Anne Stuart [78]
He turned the heat on, and they drove up the driveway in silence, passing her car as they went. “Do you want me to call the garage tomorrow?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Sophie said stiffly.
“Suit yourself.” He headed toward the inn, and the Jaguar slid briefly in the mud. He could see Sophie’s hands fisted in her lap, and he was half tempted to gun the motor, just to see what would happen if they went into a spin.
He was too mature for that. He drove up the winding drive to the inn sedately enough, pulled up to the kitchen door and parked. He expected her to leap out of the car while it was still moving, but as usual she managed to surprise him.
She turned around to face him and held out her hand like a perfect little lady. Her grubby, bloodstained hand. “Thank you very much for taking me home,” she said, her voice stilted.
He could feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he solemnly took her hand and shook it. “I live to serve.” He didn’t release her hand.
She noticed, but she didn’t pull away. “Are you a cop?” she asked.
“No.”
“Are you a writer? Reporter?”
“No.” Her hand was growing warm in his grip, and she bit her lip. He was going to have to kiss her.
“Then what are you?”
“Extremely turned on.” And he pulled her across the seat, onto his lap.
She struggled only for a minute, long enough to feel his erection beneath her, long enough to make him hornier than ever. And then she stilled, looking at him out of those huge, wary eyes.
“Sorry,” he said, absolutely unrepentant. “I can’t resist.” He slid his hand behind her neck, beneath her wet, tangled hair, and brought her mouth to his.
He half expected another argument. A struggle of some sort. Again, a surprise. She made that soft, hungry sound that had already emblazoned itself in his senses, she put her hands on his shoulders, and she kissed him back, her tongue sliding against his.
His reaction was immediate. He pulled her tighter against him, sliding his other hand up under the baggy sweatshirt to cover her breast. Why the hell had he suggested she wear an extra layer of clothing, when all he wanted to do was pull it off?
He could feel her heart thudding beneath his hand, and he knew it wasn’t fear—it was plain, simple desire. He turned her in his arms, his mouth never leaving hers, until she was sitting astride him on the bench seat, pressing against him, and he wondered whether he could talk her into doing it this way for her second try at sex.
He broke the kiss, moving his mouth down the side of her neck as he reached underneath her full skirt to touch her.
She let out a quiet little squeak, and pushed against him for a breathless, agonizingly wonderful moment, and he wanted to make her come that way, first, before he unfastened his jeans and pushed inside her. If he could hold out that long. He couldn’t ever remember wanting a woman so damn much—he was practically out of control, and his hands were shaking as his fingers slid beneath her panties.
She was wet. The feel of her against his hand, her soft neck beneath his mouth, the movement of her hips against him, the soft whimpering noises she made just before she exploded in a little shimmer of climax that made him almost desperate to join her.
He reached down for his zipper, fumbling, but Sophie came back to her senses with a thud, and she scrambled off him with a choked sound of horror. A moment later she’d practically fallen out the door, and the last he saw of her she was running up the hill to the kitchen door. It slammed shut behind her.
He swore. Slowly, carefully, with as much vibrant obscenity as he could possibly come up with. He really needed to punch something, but there was nothing but the burled walnut dashboard, and he had his priorities straight.
He sat back and looked at the building through the driving rain. The dark, deserted wing stretched out behind the cozy inn—bleak, deserted, keeping its secrets. Now was as good a time as any—Sophie would be too upset to even notice where he’d gone.
But he’d left his flashlight back at the house. And he didn’t feel