Play Me (Barnes Brothers Book 2) Page 5

  Ragged breaths brought his chest to her breasts and she tightened willingly. Willing, in fact, seemed to be the word of the day. She was at a loss on how to fight the feeling.

  He leaned to one side and the firelight touched his face. His wicked grin made promises that the fingers at her waistband prepared to deliver. He released the button of her jeans, tugged her shirt up her rib cage, then settled his palm possessively on her soft, girl belly.

  “This is crazy, you know,” he said.

  “I know,” she whispered. “I don’t know you.” A tiny moan rose from her throat. “I’m not even sure I know myself. This can’t be real.”

  “It’s real,” he said as his fingertips slipped under the elastic waistband of her white cotton panties. “I think in your heart you’ve known me a long time. And maybe you’re just now getting to know yourself. Maybe this”—he leaned forward, his long hair draped darkly against his neck—“is who you really are.”

  And then his sweet-time mouth covered hers.

  FOUR

  The game of seduction was out of control.

  Tyler knew it the minute his lips settled over Sophie’s. He’d thought to keep the contact quick and teasing, to prove her lips belonged at the head of the kissable class, to assure her they were as soft and accepting as any he’d had the pleasure to know.

  But he hadn’t expected them to be so giving. Or to keep giving. And with all that giving going on, he couldn’t think. He didn’t want to think. He wanted to feel.

  He wanted to feel Sophie. Her skin, soft to the tough pads of his fingers, smooth beneath his end-of-the-day beard. Her hair, the short blond strands tossed wildly out of control. Her muscles, trembling and tense; her body, taut with urgency, expectant, in need.

  He wanted her touch in return, wanted her small hands on his skin, wanted her to indulge, to measure him with her fingertips, to taste the sweat of his sex with her tongue.

  What he wanted had become what he needed and it was a damning distinction.

  One he recognized, one he’d have to face.

  One growing in proportion to his erection and Sophie’s lusty moans.

  The sounds in her throat were pleas more than whimpers. They began as quivers in her chest and rippled upward, swirling through his mouth with desire and her tongue.

  He could think of nothing but the way she arched her hips beneath him. The way her hands left his shoulders to work free the snaps of his shirt. The way she managed both while rhythmically plying her tongue against his, arousing him boldly, fully, exquisitely.

  She finished with his shirt, tugged it down around his shoulders, spread it open. Her hands made their way into his hair, held him for a kiss that melted all reason, that ripened the skin-bursting tightness in his groin.

  He rolled them both to the side far enough and long enough to work free the clasp of her bra. Then he was back on top, shoving her clothing to her neck so her skin touched his from belly to breast.

  Her belly was taut and firm, her breasts small, but plump and perfect. He pressed their giving weight with his chest until her nipples beaded and begged for his kiss. But Sophie wouldn’t give up his mouth.

  She delved deeper, searching as if there were parts he hadn’t yet shared. Her lips tasted, her tongue stroked at his. Propped up on both elbows, he cradled her head, tasted and stroked in return.

  He’d never kissed to completion but he knew it was about to happen. Her hips arched and the only clear thought that went through his mind was this is a hell of a time not to have a condom.

  She spread her legs wider and he settled deeply, firmly, between. The ridge of his erection lay low on her belly so that when she rocked against him, the rhythm started, making him a slave to his body and the woman beneath.

  A woman he didn’t know, a woman he’d seen for the first time today.

  A woman imprinted forever on his mind.

  She raised up and he pressed down and she rubbed and he rubbed back. His erection slid over the fabric of his boxers and the friction built with the motion, up and back, up and back, up and… aw, hell, he wasn’t going to last.

  Sophie’s fingers slipped into his shorts. She gripped his backside. He growled in her ear. And at the insistent downward pressure of her hands, he pumped and rocked and primed his body with her heat.

  She bit at his ear and his jawline, clawed at his back, holding him, urging him, driving against him, crying out sex words and begging and pleading until he felt that first rush of dampness and the squeezing and drawing between his legs. He jerked away, found the tail of his shirt, and caught his release.

  He took but a minute to breathe, a minute to adjust his shorts, a minute to allow his blood to calm. He was done, but Sophie wasn’t and the frustrated motions of her body couldn’t be ignored. Neither could the tiny cries of “Please, please,” she breathed against the base of his neck.

  He raised up, shucked off his shirt, leaned down briefly to kiss both her breasts then grabbed the waistband of her jeans. “Lift up.”

  She did and he tugged the denim and her panties to her knees. He lay between her thighs, wrapped one arm around and beneath her, spread her open, and made her come. Her hands urged him on, as did her cries, the lift of her hips, her fingers in his hair, her sweat.

  And when she was wild beneath him, shuddering at his touch, weeping his name, her body pulsing around his fingers and mouth, he crawled on top and gently kissed her, telling her with tiny words and soft sounds that the night was early, the possibilities endless.

  She came back slowly. It wasn’t until he felt her tiny fists balled against his chest, and noticed her whimpers had dissolved into sobs, and her tears were wetting both of their faces, that he realized the extent of his error in time and place.

  He wasn’t usually such a quick trigger, and he should have remembered that sex between strangers wasn’t his style. But Sophie had managed to mess with his mind and convince his body this wasn’t their first time.

  He stood, gripped her unyielding wrists and pulled her to her feet. He tugged her shirt down and her pants up, but he didn’t force her to talk or to look him in the eye.

  What he did was spin her around and walk her into the bedroom. A red flannel thing lay folded on the pillow. He handed it to her, directed her to the bathroom, and closed the door.

  Then he returned to the living room and, with frustration a tight knot between his stomach and chest, shoved the love seat halfway to the kitchen and kicked the Scrabble board across the room. Letters scattered across the floor, ricocheted off the footlocker and into the flames.

  Hands on his hips, he watched the fire consume the game of seduction as thoroughly as Sophie had consumed him. But what had consumed Sophie?

  The sound of running water reached him above the sound of running rain. Knowing the size of the cabin’s water heater, he also knew Sophie wouldn’t be able to hide in the shower forever. He didn’t intend for her to hide at all. Not until he assured her they hadn’t made a mistake.

  She’d said this was crazy. It was.

  But it wasn’t a mistake.

  Dammit, why couldn’t things be as simple as they used to be? For some reason, when he’d come home four months ago he’d expected to return to life as usual, to pick up where he’d left off—seeing old friends, easing into a familiar routine. But Brodie, Texas, wasn’t the same.

  Except that it was. He was the one who’d changed. What he’d wanted at eighteen wasn’t what he wanted at twenty-eight.

  He gathered up what Scrabble letters remained on the floor and tossed them into the fire. The game was over.

  Slinging the flowered blanket around his shoulders, he grabbed his shirt off the floor and headed outside. Huddled deep into the dry warmth, he rinsed the shirttail in the overflow of rain pouring from the eaves.

  The thing he hated about mistakes was the way they caught a man with his guard down. Plans would be progressing as smooth as saddle leather when along came a mistake and boom those plans were dust, history,
and the structure a man had counted on for most of his life lay buried in the rubble.

  Of course, his dream wasn’t all rubble. Much of it remained fixed on a stable foundation. His career was set to take off, the veterinary practice he’d coveted was only weeks away.

  Coming back to live on Camelot was great, even if it wasn’t quite the same. He’d been enjoying the heck out of the biscuits his Uncle Jud managed to sneak by Harley. He’d been enjoying the heck out of his three nephews, too.

  But his childhood home now belonged to Gardner, Harley, and the boys. And rightly so. Gardner’s love for Camelot and the land reflected Tyler’s own love for veterinary medicine.

  Besides, he didn’t have a lot of use for Camelot now that big brother was building him a house as a coming home present.

  The house would’ve been plenty; he didn’t know what he was going to do with the five hundred acres his brother had decided to build it on. Gardner tended to go overboard with his generosity. And Tyler didn’t have a doubt that giving spirit had a lot to do with the peace his brother had found with Harley.

  Which brought Tyler back to the rubble thing. He hustled back inside and hung his shirt over a kitchen chair. Draping his almost-dry jeans over another, he dried off the best he could with the damp blanket then lowered the heat in the oven and headed for the fireplace.

  There was nothing wrong with Brodie, Texas’s women. Nothing at all. Not a thing. He liked them as much now as he’d liked their high school versions years ago. And that was the problem. He liked them.

  If sparks were to have started with Lindy Coltrain or Rachel Ford or any of the others who’d been feeding him chicken-fried steak smothered in cream gravy, they would have flared to life long ago.

  He wasn’t settling for anything but the best in his professional life; why had he thought he’d be able to settle for anything less in his personal?

  The change in plans had been destined to happen. Maturity had brought it all into focus. And Sophie happened to be in his line of vision right after he’d opened his eyes.

  He’d witnessed her mad dash down the cabin road, then seen her slow to a walk once she realized her visitor wasn’t a vagrant, that he was the one who had tripped her shotgun alarm.

  She hadn’t hesitated but headed toward him with what-for written all over her, her stride steady and uncommonly long for legs that didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  She was the size of a pixie, a sprite, with raggedly cut blond hair and omniscient green eyes. He’d watched her approach him, assess him, conclude whatever she’d concluded about him.

  Then she’d come closer and he’d enjoyed her progress, the way her denim fit, the way she protected her guard dog, the way her small, strong body fought the rough winds.

  Later, once he’d learned who she was and what she did for a living, once she’d shed her denim jacket and come closer, giving him a better view, he could see that her muscles came from hard work. Her body was buff, not bulky; sexy, not sculpted. And undeniably female.

  What made her seem larger was her temperament. It hadn’t taken him long to realize her energy accounted for most of her size.

  And until she’d lain underneath him, until he’d measured the span of her ribs with his hand, until he’d tucked her hips in the circle of his arms, he hadn’t realized how small she was, how petite, how vulnerable.

  How much he wanted her.

  He had no intention of letting her escape before exploring the potential of the next several days. He could only think of one way to keep her with him for the night and, now that the water in the shower had quit running, he needed to get busy.

  Returning to the bedroom, he jerked the mattress from the frame and hauled it into the living room, placing it between the love seat and the hearth.

  He made one more trip, grabbed up the pillows he’d knocked to the floor and wrapped his other arm around the blankets stacked on the bureau. Back in the living room, he tossed the load to the mattress and pushed the love seat in place to serve as a headboard of sorts.

  There. She had a choice. The mattress or the love seat. And, unless she planned to sleep on the rope bed frame, they’d be in the same room. Even if he couldn’t get her to talk, she’d have to listen. He’d work out what he was going to say once he saw what mood she was in.

  “What the hell did you do with my bed?”

  Ah. Prickly. He should’ve guessed.

  He turned to find her standing in the bedroom doorway clutching a gray cloth bundle. The red flannel thing hung to her knees and thick red socks slouched around her calves.

  She’d scrubbed her face clean of the bare color she’d been wearing and the glitter in her eyes was almost as sharp as the wet spikes of her hair.

  “What is my mattress doing in here?”

  “My mattress, remember?” He snatched the scrap of gold paper from the floor and pointed out the numbers. “I won.”

  “You cheated. You can’t use an M for a W.”

  “Then you cheated, too, letting me. Guess that makes us even.” He watched her for a long moment, waiting for a change of position, of expression, of the chilly temperature in the room. Finally, he wadded the five hundred dollar bill and tossed it into the fire and sighed.

  This was going to be a long night.

  At last, Sophie took a reluctant step forward, her lips smashed tightly together, and by the time he realized that what she’d been holding was a change of clothes, she’d thrown them at him.

  “Maybe you can wear those.”

  He shook out the sweats and a faded navy cotton T-shirt.

  “They’re Rico’s,” she explained. “We worked late one night. I slept in town.” When he looked at them instead of answering, she added, “Don’t worry. They’re clean. I just keep forgetting to return them.”

  Clean was good, but he wouldn’t have minded at all for them to smell of Sophie. “Thanks.”

  He tossed the T-shirt onto the love seat and pulled the sweats on over his boxers. The fleecy legs were warm and would be a lot more comfortable to sleep in than damp jeans, though snuggling up to female and flannel was preferable.

  But since Sophie was still standing there with her arms crossed and her lips disapprovingly tight, Tyler tugged on the T-shirt and held both arms out to the side.

  “Better?”

  She barely nodded as if the only thing better would be for him to be gone. But he wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. Not until he’d figured out how Scrabble had turned into sex.

  And why he wasn’t as pleased as he had been two hours ago with the knowledge that her crew would finish his hospital by Christmas.

  If they hadn’t come to terms by morning, well, at least he’d have light to walk out of here by. “You want me to heat up the coffee?”

  She shook her head. “It’s too late for caffeine.”

  That sounded like she didn’t plan to stay awake and talk.

  “I think I’ll warm a cup of milk,” she said, passing him on her way to the refrigerator.

  That really sounded like she didn’t plan to stay up and talk. He followed her into the kitchen and watched her pour milk into a white enamel pot. “Looks good. I’ll have one, too.”

  She cast him a sideways glance but went ahead and chugged more milk into the pot she’d set on the burner.

  Standing behind her, studying the way the ends of her hair lay close against her nape, the way the shapeless red flannel thing lay soft against her curves, the way the tops of her socks bunched low around her slender calves, Tyler leaned back against the sink and tried to decide where to begin the conversation Sophie obviously didn’t want to have.

  “Sophie?”

  Head bowed, she swirled a wooden spoon through the milk. “This isn’t a good time, Tyler. I don’t feel much like talking.”

  Her tight-lipped reaction didn’t surprise him but did have him drawing a contemplative breath. The direct approach wasn’t working, so… He glanced to his left and caught sight of Cowboy who’d retreated under
the kitchen table.

  “We don’t have to talk,” he lied. “I just thought you might want me to feed Cowboy.”

  She looked around, her eyes wide as if stunned to realize she’d forgotten to feed her dog. Ruffling her short hair, she said, “I’ll feed him,” and set to shuffling through the cans on the bottom of the metal pantry shelves.

  Tyler watched her mix a can of dog food with a cup of dry. Her movements were economical but the kitchen was economy-size. He couldn’t help but smell her in the air, and that had him shifting positions again.

  He braced his elbows behind him on the sink, attempting a comfortable level of conversation. “The way the ol’ boy’s stomach was rumbling I’m surprised he wasn’t over here opening that can with his teeth.”

  Sophie set the dish near the back door. Cowboy yawned, straightened both front legs and arched his back in a long, drawn-out stretch. Then he slowly made his way across the kitchen floor, his nails clicking on the wooden boards.

  Frowning, Tyler followed the dog’s casual progress. “Guess he wasn’t as hungry as I thought.”

  “He’s hungry. But he’s well-mannered enough not to make an issue of it. Besides, he doesn’t like an audience,” Sophie said, reaching past Tyler into the cupboard for two coffee mugs.

  “Either that or the nonchalance is a show of independence.”

  “How so?”

  “If he put on a big production of waiting to be fed, he’d be admitting he couldn’t survive without you to feed him. This way he’s letting you know he appreciates the offer without losing any of his doggie dignity,” he said, moving to stand at the side of the stove and leaning his shoulder into the wall behind.

  A smile loosened Sophie’s lips. Fighting the grin, she looked down and set both mugs on the stovetop. “Are you a veterinarian or a canine shrink?”

  “Actually, I just made that up. Not bad, huh?” He wiggled both brows. She rolled her eyes at his comment, so he went on. “Cowboy reminds me a lot of a dog I had when I was a kid. Her name was Guinevere.”

  “This was when you lived on Camelot?”

  He nodded. “Guin would cock her head to one side, stare at me with those big browns, and do everything but tap her foot to let me know she had better things to do than sit and listen to me gripe about my chores.”