Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,29

it’s because Jake’s opinion matters to me, and I’m shook all over again. I’m not used to giving a rat’s ass what anyone thinks about how I live my life, especially not a guy I met only a few weeks ago.

It must show, because his earnest expression turns to concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his brows knotting together.

“Uh, sure.” I gesture to the box, which he’s set down on the floor next to him. Now is not the time for introspection. It’s the time for hanging this piñata and getting the heck out of here. I can sort out my jumbled emotions later. “There’s a pack of nails in there. Can you hand me one?”

For the next few minutes we work together in silence like a well-oiled machine, Jake anticipating my needs without me having to say a word. He gives me a nail. I position it in the center of the beam. He hands me the hammer. I use one end to tap the nail in and the other to pull it out so I can screw in the eye bolt he puts in my palm. He hands me a length of rope. I run it through the bolt.

I give the bolt one last turn to make sure it’s in there good and tight, then bend down to grab the piñata Jake’s already retrieved from the bar. The chair wobbles, and I feel myself losing my balance. One second I’m upright, the next I’m in a nose dive that lands me sprawled on top of Jake, the piñata tossed aside and fluorescent neon penis gummies scattered all around us on the floor.

“I’m so sorry. Your arm...” I try to scramble off his chest, but the arm I’m not freaking out about locks me to him like a vice. At least I didn’t break that one, too. That’s some small consolation for knocking him down like a bowling pin.

“My arm is fine,” he assures me, his breath warm on my cheek, stirring the hair that’s come free from my sad mess of a ponytail. He chuckles, and the low rumble reverberates through me, making my nerve endings tingle. “Well, technically it’s not fine. But it’s not any worse than it was before you fell on me. My left side took the brunt of the impact.”

I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but he’s too strong, even with only one arm. “Um, we should probably get up.”

“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head, and unruly dark hair flops over his forehead. My fingers itch to push it back, to feel the slip and slide of the thick locks as I smooth them away from his face. “Not so fast.”

“But I’m squashing you.” I’m not a heavyweight, but I’m not petite, either. He can’t be comfortable with me spread-eagled over him.

“Right. I’ve got you exactly where I want you.” His hand drifts from the middle of my back down to the curve of my ass and squeezes.

I let out a thin, breathy exhale. “You want me crushing you like a grape?”

He rolls us so I’m beneath him. He looms above me like some wild pagan god, propped up on his good arm, his chest heaving and a thin sheen of sweat dampening his brow. “There. Now you can stop worrying about squashing me and start concentrating on more important things.”

“Like what?”

Please, please, please let him mean what I think he means.

“Like this.”

His lips come crashing down on mine, and my heart wants to sing. He does mean what I think he means, and then some. I like to kiss as much as the next gal, but this is more than kissing. It’s kissing on steroids. Jake’s mouth is moving against mine like the world is seconds from ending, like this is the last time we’ll get to do this and he doesn’t want to hold anything back.

He coaxes my lips apart with his tongue, and my eyes flutter closed. I wrap my legs around his and reach up to rake my fingers through his hair. I’m drowning in him, being dragged under by his touch, his taste, his smell.

But what a way to go.

I forget where we are. I forget that we’ve got a job to finish. I forget that at any minute a bride-to-be and her seven bridesmaids could waltz in here and discover us on the floor, making out like a couple of horny teenagers.

Until the click of a lock shatters the silence and I freeze.

“Ainsley? You here? The front desk