There’s only so much temptation a man can resist. With the wind in his face and Philadelphia’s arms circling his waist, Crash broke the sound barrier getting back to camp. Great Caesar in a dinghy, what was she doing with her hands? Those little erotic moves she was making nearly drove him wild.
Joseph would love the irony of this situation. The woman Crash was determined to resist had become the very kind he found irresistible: soft, feminine, sweet, and sexy.
What he was going to do was put her down at her camp, see that she was properly calmed down and tucked in, then climb in his own sleeping bag and forget he’d almost been seduced by a female lawyer.
What he did instead was lift her off the Harley and carry her inside her tent with Baxter close at their heels. The puppy immediately snuggled into his bed and went fast to sleep, which was exactly what Crash intended to do. But not yet. Not while he felt the delicious weight of a delectable woman pressing against his body. Not while he was so wound up, he hardly knew his real name.
Moonlight streamed through the small window of the tent and crept around the edges of the tent’s flap. In that small and tender light, Philadelphia’s eyes shone.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.
He wasn’t made of stone.
“I do,” he said, right before he kissed her.
Great Caesar’s pajamas, such a kiss. The gods were conspiring against him. There was no man living who could walk away from those lips.
If she’d protested, he might have been able to leave, but as he deepened the kiss her arms stole around him, and she held on as if she’d never let go. It seemed only natural to lower her to the sleeping bag, only natural to fit her hips into his, only natural to run his hands under her blouse and stroke the long, fine length of her back.
She made small sounds of pleasure. Any minute now Crash would turn back, but not yet, not while her body heat seared him, not while the flames licked at his own skin, setting him on fire.
He dipped his tongue into her mouth, and she met his thrust with one of her own. The rhythm of tongues and hips drove him almost over the brink. Almost.
“You are so good,” she murmured. “So good.”
Praise coming from Philadelphia was heady stuff. He had to have more.
He cupped her hips and held them tightly against his own, and even through their clothes he could feel the hot, moist heat of her. She was lush and willing and ready. His for the taking.
And how he would take her, starting slow and sweet, then building to a wild abandon that would leave them tangled and panting. He hurt with the wanting of her.
Her hand stole between them, and her boldness was as delightful as it was unexpected. He’d always loved boldness in a woman, especially when it was paired with a feminine softness.
His blood caught fire, and he felt the heat on every inch of his skin, heard the roaring in his ears. He yearned for her as he’d never yearned for a woman.
But the thing about Philadelphia was that she was a lady. And the thing about Crash was that, in spite of appearances, he was a gentleman. He’d never taken a woman without thinking about the consequences. He’d never believed in one-night stands, in taking without giving something in return, in casual sex, particularly with a woman like Philadelphia, a woman who deserved so much more, a woman still raw from rejection.
Her breath was hot against his skin, and her heart raced so hard, he could feel its excited rhythm against his own.
“I want you,” she said.
“I want you, too, Philadelphia.”
It was the absolute truth. He wanted her as he’d never wanted another woman, wanted her with every ounce of his being, wanted her in all the many ways of a man who loves a woman.
He sighed deeply and stroked her back, trying to gentle her down, trying to gentle them both down. His touch had the opposite effect on her. Her hips set up a frantic rhythm as she writhed in his arms.
“You’ll probably never know how much I want you,” he whispered, the sound of his voice lost in the sounds of wanting she made.
He strained to be free of the constraints of clothes. If she kept up what she was doing, he would soon be out of control. Principles be hanged. There would be no turning back.
“Philadelphia...”
Moaning, she buried her face in his neck and raked her hands down his back. Her tongue was warm and wet against his skin.
He tried once more to get her attention. “Philadelphia...”
“You taste like sea spray,” she said as she pushed aside his shirt to lick and taste along his collarbone.
Great Caesar’s stallion. How could a man be noble in a situation like this?
He found the zipper of her pants, heard the soft snick as it moved downward.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, Crash.”
He was so close, so close. He took deep breaths, trying to rein himself back under control. He was not her kind of man, and she was not his kind of woman. And he wasn’t about to make her a one-night stand, or even a two-week fling.
He closed her zipper and shifted his hips back.
“You’d hate me in the morning,” he said.
She stiffened as if she’d been slapped. Then she went perfectly still. Better to make her mad for a few minutes, than to give her something she’d regret the rest of her life.
“Tarzan on a Harley and a big-city lawyer...” He straightened her clothes, then stood up, chuckling, trying to make a joke of the whole thing. “We’re a match made in hell, Philadelphia.”
“Get out.” She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t even smiling.
Too late he realized that she might take his actions as less than noble, that she might even take them as rejection, which was the last thing in the world he wanted her to think.
“Philadelphia...”
She picked up a shoe and threw it at him. “Just get out.” The shoe zinged past his head and landed with a plop on the ground.
“I didn’t mean to stir you up.”
She stood up, tall and proud, her head at a haughty angle, her chin tilted upward.
“Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t do anything to me. I’m totally unmoved by you, Crash.”
That stung. How could she stand there and deny the passion that had sparked between them?
The smart thing to do was leave. But he’d never been known for doing the smart thing. Crash was like a bull, always charging straight ahead. “The most aggravating thing about you, Crash, is that you don’t know when to let well enough alone,” Joseph was always telling him.
Joe was right about that. Instead of leaving while he was halfway ahead, Crash stood his ground.
“Look, Philadelphia, let me explain.”
“Put it in a letter, lick it, stamp it, and mail it to yourself. You’re the only one interested.”
“Did you know that you’re cute when you’re mad?”
“Cute? Did you say cute?”
She picked up a book and threw it at him. As the book whizzed by his head he noticed that it was a volume of LaFave and Scott, Criminal haw. That proved his point: He and Philadelphia were totally unsuitable for each other.
“Your aim is improving, Philadelphia.”
“Maybe this will hit your fat head.”
She heaved another volume in his direction, and he ducked out of the tent laughing.
But he wasn’t laughing when he got to his own tent; he was thinking that sometimes the price for nobility was too high.