Out on the road, as Anne went through the series of stoplights and bunch of turns that she could do in her sleep, she found her palm getting sweaty again. Matter of fact, her body felt like it was under a heat lamp. As she came up to a red light, she peeled her fleece off over her head and tossed it into the back.
“How did you get to my house?” she asked. “I didn’t see your car.”
“I walked.”
She glanced over. “Five miles?”
“I needed to clear my head.” As his hand dipped into his windbreaker, he cursed and took it back out. “Yes, I know. No smoking in your car.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Already said I know,” he shot back.
At the next light, she noted the way his knee was bouncing up and down like the left half of him was running a hypothetical sprint.
Like being in step across the parking lot, she knew the feeling. Her heart was beating about as fast as that foot of his was tapping in that wheel well, and she wasn’t stupid. They were both rattled, the past and present colliding and leaving shattered pieces of “normal,” “forever,” and “never going to happen to me” in the street.
That was the thing about life. Habit and routine made things feel permanent, but that was all an illusion based on the very flimsy foundation of repetition. Change and chaos was a far better bet to put your faith in.
At least you would never be surprised when things went tits up.
“I’ll take you home then,” she announced.
“I can walk.”
“I know you can.”
“It’s fine—”
“It’s cold—”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Anne locked her molars. It was either that, or this—whatever it was—was going to uncap into a whole lot of yelling over nothing.
And meanwhile, the pressure was building. In her. In him. Until she was damn sure they were within two psi of blowing the safety glass out of the Subaru’s doors and windshield.
When she got to his house, she pulled into the short drive, went around back, and hit the brakes. She could tell he was rank pissed at her reroute, but guess what. She didn’t care.
She wanted him angry at her.
It was safer that way. Somewhere along the ride to his apartment, frustration and pain had kindled into energy of a different kind. Heat of a different kind. Urgency . . . of a dangerous kind.
Abruptly, the confines of the car’s interior shrunk down on her. On them.
“Put the car in park,” Danny said in a gruff voice.
Nope, she thought. Not a good call. Reverse was the gear she wanted.
But her hand had other ideas, not just moving the gear shift into place but turning the engine off. In the sudden silence, she was aware of breathing heavily, and she parted her lips to get some more oxygen into her lungs.
“We are not doing this.” Her voice was too low. And not in terms of volume. “I am not doing this.”
Danny turned to her. “You sure about that. Tell me to get the fuck out of your car—”
“Get the fuck out of my car.”
Except only a part of her meant it—and Danny, the idiot savant when it came to emotions, knew that. The bastard knew it.
Losing her temper and her mind, Anne reached for him, clapping a hand on the side of his neck and yanking him to her mouth. And because she could always rely on Danny Maguire not doing the right thing, he didn’t hesitate.
He kissed the ever-living shit out her, his lips grinding on hers, his tongue penetrating her with such an erotic dominance that she was instantly reminded of why he’d given her the sex of her life the one time she’d been with him.
When they separated, his hooded eyes were a mirror she didn’t want to look into. She didn’t need confirmation that all her heavy-handed, holier-than-thou rhetoric was about to get haymakered in favor of Danny’s stellar coping mechanism.
Namely meaningless sex.
“Are you going to make me ask,” he said. “Because I will.”
Damn it, there were all kinds of reasons not to do this.
Too bad each and every one of them was in a foreign language.
“I don’t want to talk,” she said as she killed the engine and got out of her car.
And what do you know, as Danny came prowling around to her, he didn’t seem to be focused on conversation, either.
Chapter 21
No talking. As Danny followed Anne to his back door, she was obviously determined not to think too much about this, and that was fine with him. He wasn’t interested in conversation. He wanted in that woman right now. The delay taking down her pants and fucking off his button fly was going to test the limits of his patience.
Once they were inside his crappy kitchen, it was on again, their bodies colliding in the darkness, his hands rough, her nails digging into his windbreaker. Backing her up to the counter by the sink, he popped her off the floor and jerked her knees apart.
He didn’t want this to happen in his bedroom, and not because the place was a mess. He had done a number of women in there, and even though the first thing Anne was going to do was convince herself this didn’t mean shit, he was not confusing her with those one night stands.
This meant too much.
When Anne braced herself up, he hooked the waistband of her leggings and stripped them off. Then he was running his hands up those smooth muscles of her thighs. She was in great physical shape, nothing like those soft, augmented types he’d been picking up at Timeout, but he wouldn’t have cared what her body was like.
This was Anne.
“I used a condom. With the others,” he said as he looked her straight in the eye. “Every one, each time.”
When she closed her eyes, he figured he’d blown it, but he wanted her to know. He had a pack of Trojans in his bedroom, and he’d get them if she told him to. The truth was, though, in the last ten months, he’d practiced safe sex not because he gave a shit about himself, but because he had hoped, prayed, for this moment with her.
He had taken care of himself for her.
“Just kiss me,” she muttered.
And that was the last thing they said to each other. Beneath his roving hands, she arched, bringing her breasts against his chest. Closer, he wanted to be closer to her, but he also wanted to slow down because he needed to remember every moment of this.
When her hand fumbled at his fly, he was on it, tearing the buttons apart, his cock doing the rest of the job.
Anne tilted her hips and took a hold on him, the sensation of her hand on his shaft enough to make him groan. It was awkward, though, their two bodies not quite right at counter height—so he solved the problem by cupping her ass and holding her up.
It was better than he remembered. The fit. The slick, hot squeeze. The smell of her shampoo, her hair in his face, her grip on his shoulders strong and sure.
He walked them through to the sitting room, letting his stride do the pumping and the rhythm. And then there was a brief parting as he laid her down.
That didn’t last.
Danny was on top of her in a heartbeat, hooking his forearm under her knee and cranking her leg up, his erection going back in on a rush. He didn’t hold back, his pelvis punching in tight and retreating, her body absorbing the pounding, her breath harsh and hoarse.
He refused to orgasm. Even though his body had been on the brink the instant he’d entered her, he was holding off. But it was getting tough. He was starting to shake, the temptation to let himself go becoming a painful denial.
Anne solved his problem. With a gasp, she threw her head back, and that was when he stilled. He wanted to feel her come for him, and he closed his eyes concentrating on the way her sex gripped him. And then he was off on his own ride, his hips rocking into her, locking on, his release the kind of thing that made his head spin.
So good.
Too good.
* * *
Damn it.
As Anne felt Danny pump into her, she knew what that meant. Also knew that he was the kind of man who wasn’t done even after he finished. At least it hadn’t been that way with her before.
Opening her eyes, she stared at the ceiling of his sitting room and decided she was way too old for the kind of college hookup this was: guy’s apartment, on the sofa, reckless and regretful. Or at least that was what she was telling herself this was.