Chapter Eighteen

Andrea kept her fingers crossed tightly, hoping a crew member wouldn’t appear and see her in this getup.

She stopped in the hallway outside Dillon’s cabin and took a deep breath. She was not afraid of men, and if she had sex with Dillon it would probably be enjoyable.

Looking both ways and telling herself to knock on the door before someone saw her, she raised her hand. Hesitated. What if he didn’t want to have sex with her? What if the kiss had been just a friendly good-night? She looked like his sister. Would he want to have sex with a woman who looked so much like Karli? Should she have taken off the fake beauty mark and tinted contacts?

Coward. Afraid. She pulled in another breath, rapped three times on the door.

Silence except for her pounding pulse. The thought that he might not be in his cabin gave her a zephyr of relief. She’d tried to make a move, but he wasn’t available. She had the courage, but what could she do if he was out?

She counted to ten, then rapped again. Wet her lips. Held her breath.

As she listened for the sound of a reply or someone turning the knob, some of the red haze that had clouded her thinking dissipated, and the ugly truth hit her upside the head. She was acting like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum. Being angry with Mitch was no reason for making a fool of herself by throwing herself at Dillon.

Appalled at what she’d almost done, she turned and sprinted down the hallway, praying Dillon hadn’t heard her knock. Safely back in her cabin, she shut the door, leaned against the inside, closed her eyes, and caught her breath.

Anger welled inside her. Damn Mitch Weaver. This was all his fault.

Damn him. Because of him, she’d almost made an enormous mistake. He’d goaded her into it. And she’d been foolish enough to take his bait.

Her blood heated. She pushed off her door, spun toward it, and swung it open. The hallway was still empty. Good.

She stormed out the door, headed for Weaver’s cabin.

She’d give him a piece of her mind. He’d better not try being all friendly and getting her to reveal things she shouldn’t and then analyzing her again. From now on, he needed to leave her alone.

Avoiding the elevator, she clopped down the stairway to the crew deck. No one in sight. Squaring her shoulders, she hurried down the corridor to his door and knocked.

Silence. Was he somewhere else on the boat?

Andrea shifted her weight from foot to foot and chewed her lower lip as she glanced up and down the hallway. Empty, but for how long? If anyone came out of a cabin or down the stairway, she would die of embarrassment. She knocked again, pressed her ear to the door. Water running? Was he in the shower?

She tried the doorknob. It turned. Unlocked. Glancing over her shoulder for one last look around, she pushed open the door and slipped inside.

The full impact of sneaking into a Ranger’s cabin didn’t hit her until her gaze swung to the bathroom door. Mitch’s hair was dripping on his shoulders, and the rest of his magnificent body was naked as a Greek statue. His Glock was pointed at her chest.

…

Mitch blinked. “What the hell?”

Andrea stood a foot inside his door, motionless, eyes wide, looking as shocked as he felt. He blinked again. No mirage. It really was Andrea, wearing a negligee that revealed more than it covered. He took in the sight—

Shit. She was taking in the sight, too. He was naked and dripping on the floor.

He lowered his gun, shifted his weight. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll grab a towel.”

She gulped and nodded.

He returned to the bathroom and quickly toweled some of the water from his hair while his mind swirled in chaos. Why was she here? Why did she have to be wearing that skimpy, see-through negligee? His blood started to heat, and his body stirred. He considered jumping back under some ice-cold water. No. He would be professional and maintain his cool. Somehow.

He wrapped a fluffy, dry towel around his waist and went out to receive his guest. She was still standing by the door as if someone else had sneaked in and nailed her feet to the floor.

He planted his fists on his hips and made little effort to control his building anger. “At the risk of sounding rude, what the hell are you doing barging into my cabin in the middle of the night? I could have shot you.”

She licked her lips and squared her shoulders. “We have to get something straight.”

He thought of the only thing that was getting straight right now. It wasn’t something they should discuss, but if he stared at her in that outfit much longer, the subject would come up on its own. “Does it explain why you’re wandering around the boat alone at night dressed like that?”

“I dressed in this ridiculous getup so I could seduce Dillon. I went to his cabin so I could prove I wasn’t afraid of men.”

His breath whooshed out. Pain hit his body full force, as if a heavyweight contender had sucker punched him in the gut. He crossed his arms over his chest, and the desire that had been heating in his veins supercooled. “I suppose you thought that was the sensible and mature thing to do.”

“No.” She balled her hands at her sides and stomped toward him. A flush climbed her cheeks, turning her delicate skin a delicious pink. “I don’t consider it sensible or mature. I consider it asinine. Imbecilic. The hands-down, top prizewinner of all the dumb things I’ve ever done in my life.”

“Well, it appears we agree on something.”

“Well, agree on this, you need to stay out of my life.” She poked a finger hard against his chest. “It’s your fault I’m standing here dressed like a two-bit French whore.”

He put up his hands, palms toward her. “Whoa. If you want to traipse around having sex with strangers, then that’s your prerogative. But don’t try to blame your crazy behavior on me.”

“If you hadn’t insisted I was afraid of men, I’d be asleep in my own bed—or Karli’s bed—not standing here like a fool.”

He shook his head. A muscle knotted in his jaw. “Okay, you’ve had sex with Dillon, you’ve proven you’re not afraid. All is well in your weird little world.” He stepped toward the door and opened it wide. “Now if you don’t mind leaving, I’m going to hit my bed.”

“I didn’t have sex with Dillon.”

He frowned. “Okay, good for you. You didn’t prove anything except you might be mentally unstable or drunk.”

Anger exploded in her eyes. “Damn you.” She grabbed the back of his head with two hands, yanked his head toward her, raised up on tiptoes, and kissed him.

Oh God. Andrea. Kissing him.

His breathing accelerated. Her lips were warm, soft, delicious. His head started to spin, and he was tempted to crush her against him and slide his tongue into her mouth. He prayed for the strength to control his hands. Wrong woman, wrong time, wrong place.

She kept her mouth pressed against his for another second, then she drew back, shaking. Tears shone in her eyes. “Would someone who is afraid of men go to Dillon’s cabin, then come here and do that?”

He opened his mouth to offer a cutting comment, then shut it. Something inside him melted. He lifted a hand and caressed her silky-smooth cheek. “Who are you trying to convince, Andrea, me or yourself?”

“I know who I am. I don’t need to convince myself or need you to tell me.”

“Do you know, really?” he whispered.

Her voice raised an octave. “I’m what you see. Plain and simple. Leave my psyche alone.”

“I’m not trying to mess with your psyche.” He glanced both ways in the hallway, then shut the door. “Calm down before one of the crew sees or hears you. I have a feeling that if one of them spreads a story about you coming to my door in the middle of the night, you’ll die of embarrassment in the morning.”

…

Andrea imagined the crew gossiping, and memories of her brothers’ laughter bounced in her head. Coming here was as asinine as going to Dillon’s cabin had been. Geez. How could she be so stupid?

She felt shell-shocked and almost wished she were drunk. At least then she’d have an excuse for acting like a fool.

Thank God Mitch had closed the door. At least one of them was being rational.

The heat of his body was only inches away, and sexuality radiated off him in waves. She noticed the golden glow of his skin in the lamplight. Licked her lips, which still tasted of his mouth. She’d kissed him, and he’d let her. He was standing next to her wearing only a towel that provided little more coverage than her sheer negligee. He hadn’t thrown her out on her ass. Maybe neither of them was rational.

Or maybe he was really an okay guy, a potential friend, rather than a foe.

He peered down at her with something far from friendship burning in his eyes, and she experienced the first stirrings of desire. She hadn’t been with a man in months. He was a mostly nude man. She was a mostly nude woman. If nature took its course…

A familiar flutter of awareness started low in her belly. What would he do if she kissed him again? In for a penny, in for a pound? Would one more kiss make a difference if he decided to kiss and tell?

She raised her hands and placed them on his shoulders, slid them down his chest, felt the thumping of his heart. One taste of him wasn’t enough. She wanted another.

As if he really could read her mind, he placed his strong hands on her hips. Her mouth went dry.

Andrea felt a heart-pounding rush of fear and adrenaline. Fear? No, she wasn’t afraid. She’d told him. Now she’d show him. She stretched up, closed her eyes, and tipped her head. Found his lips. He smelled of minty soap and woodsy shampoo.

He held back for a nanosecond, and she wondered if this was a bad idea.

Of course it was a bad idea.

Then his hand went to the back of her head, his fingers sliding into her hair as he took possession of her mouth. The stubble on his jaw was sexy and masculine. His lips were firm and gentle.

His tongue teased her lips, and she opened for him. He slipped his tongue inside her mouth, exploring. Tendrils of pleasure and yearning rippled all the way to her toes.

He pulled her against him, and she felt the hard evidence of his desire. A pleasant throbbing started deep inside. If she was going to leave, now was the time.

Staying would be a mistake. A huge, gigantic, humongous mistake. But, oh God, she wanted to make that mistake. Every fiber of her being begged to stay.

She pushed the thought of leaving out of her mind. Sensations whirled through her at his touch; her head spun. His tongue plunged deeper into her mouth and conquered the last of her restraint. She made a low sound like a whimper in the back of her throat.

The sound seemed to energize him. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. He set her down, and his lips slid to her earlobe, down her neck, to the pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat. Tiny tremors of need rippled through her limbs.

She reached for the towel around his waist and tugged. When it fell into her hand, she tossed it to the floor.

His hands slid over the thin material sheathing her midriff. His thumbs skimmed across her flesh, grazing the bottom of her breasts. His lips continued assaulting her neck.

His touch had her shaky, and needy, and clinging to him. Her body seemed out of control, more sensitive than ever before. He cupped the bottom of one breast, and the imprint of his hand seared her skin. When he kissed his way down her chest, then put enough pressure on her breast to cause a swell that rose to greet his marauding mouth, her breath stumbled. He licked her taut nipple through the lacy material of the negligee, and her insides melted.

Andrea tried to breathe evenly, tried to go slow and savor every second, but her body warred with her mind. She dug her fingers into his back and tugged him toward her, needing him closer, needing his skin against hers.

He chuckled and said in a sexual growl, “How does this thing come off?”

She tugged open the tiny bow in the front. “Sleeves.”

“What next?”

“Over my head.”

He grabbed the hem of the skirt and whipped the garment up and away. His gaze devoured her for a few seconds. Intensity darkened his eyes. “Much better.”

She shivered at the promise in his husky voice.

He ran a knuckle along her jaw, then bent and began a tantalizingly slow exploration of her body with his mouth. Her fingertips roamed the muscular landscape of his back, feeling the strength rippling below the surface. She memorized the texture and taste of his musky skin.

He squeezed and caressed, sending curling warmth to her middle. Erotic sensations heated her skin. She moaned from the pleasure. Ached with the spiraling need.

Her hands were hungry for sensations of him. She played with the coarse hairs that ran from his navel to his groin. She traced the grooves of his ribs. She tickled the dust of hair on his arm, explored his angles and slopes. Found the places where he was soft and the places where he was hard, stored away memories of where her touch could cause a groan of pleasure or inspire a growl of need.

Her body knew how to respond to sexual stimulation, but Mitch’s touch held a sort of magic that made her breasts heavy and throbbing, boiled every drop of her blood, turned her into a willing slave. She responded to his every caress like a person dying of thirst who is offered a sip of water. She wanted more and more. Couldn’t get enough.

He slid down on the bed and ran his fingertips over her ankles and legs. “You have great calves. A ballerina’s legs. Fabulous thighs.” He kissed her foot and ankle, slid his palms up and down her calf, and kissed his way upward ever so slowly. She lay still, open to him, feeling vulnerable but safe.

When he gently spread her legs and licked his way up her inner thigh, she cried out, swept away by a tidal wave of pure liquid heat.

His hands slid around the curve of her backside, and he lifted her toward his kisses. She eagerly arched toward him, a prisoner of the spell he’d cast on her, ready to surrender anything he desired.

Her hips undulated, and she forgot to breathe. Heat and longing pooled between her thighs. A slow explosion started inside her, flaring, burning, rippling. Hot. Hotter.

She moaned and rocked, froze in an intense moment of pleasure that ripped open her heart and turned it inside out. Her breathing was ragged, her pulse a wild tide, and she thought she might die a glorious death.

He stroked her heated skin. When her tremors subsided, he rose up on his knees, kissed the swell of her breast, and flicked his tongue over her nipple. She lay quivering beneath him, a toy he could play with at his will.

She’d never given a man complete power over her body before, but Mitch was different. With one touch, he’d tumbled all the barricades she’d erected. He made her feel emotions she’d never experienced. Emotions she’d buried deep and never allowed out. She’d fought them down with every man before him and always won. Not with Mitch. Right now nothing mattered but this man and this moment, and she didn’t have the will to fight.

Her blood coursed in her veins in a heavy rhythm that soon rebuilt her need. She wanted his body pinning her to the mattress; she wanted him filling her. She wanted him satisfying the ache and longing that he’d created and now was a raging storm of sparking electricity that threatened to destroy her soul.

She pulled his head toward hers, found his lips, slid her tongue into his hot mouth in a rhythm as old as time. Her hips rocked against him. She drew back a fraction of an inch and her lashes brushed his cheek. “Now, Mitch. I need you now.”

He rose over her and slid himself inside her silkiness, stretching her, filling her, heating her beyond any temperature a human could survive. He held her hips, forcing her to let him lead, and tortured her with a slow, smooth, smoky rhythm until she could only moan with pleasure.

When she gasped and fell over the edge again, the world seemed to vaporize. Mitch groaned and drove into her with a thrust that stole her breath, and tears of joy and contentment trickled from her eyes.

She felt as if her body had slipped into an alternate universe with no oxygen, no gravity, no time. She and Mitch were the only two beings who existed. Two bodies joined as one. Two hearts beating as one. Two halves of one whole.

Being with him was right, and deep in her soul she knew she’d never be the same again.