meet hers, the breath she inhaled was fire as it scorched her chest and spread wildly in her system, making her toes curl. Lucky’s stare dropped to where her nipples pressed against the flimsy fabric, his neck muscles flexing with a hard swallow.
She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Sometimes you had to play dirty to win.
Taylor smiled, drawing his eyes back to her face. “Hungry?”
Her question broke the moment, and he jumped a little at her voice. Stalking over to the fridge, he adjusted the half-erection pushing against the soft fabric of his low-slung sweatpants and mumbled just loud enough for her to hear, “What’s with you and no underwear?”
“It’s too confining.” She jumped down from the counter, nodding when he handed her a beer. “Most men don’t complain when a woman goes commando.”
“Oh no”—he waggled a finger at her, choking down his gulp of beverage on a laugh—“I’m not complaining. I’m all for it even though it makes me crazy. Thumbs up for the no underwear.”
“Good to know.”
They stared at each other, enjoying the moment as the hum of attraction played low between them like their own personal movie soundtrack. Lucky broke eye contact first, and Taylor took a steadying breath and a gulp of beer. The bottle slipped in her hand a little, the combination of condensation and her sweaty palms making the simple act of getting a buzz treacherous. That’s the way she always felt around Lucky—safe and familiar, but perilous and exciting at the same time. It was what had kept her hanging on all these years.
“What smells so fucking good?” he asked, diluting the tension with his abrupt change in conversation.
She put her beer on the counter, grabbing the mitts and opening the oven door.
“That would be the chicken-and-dumpling casserole left by the ladies. Grab some plates and we’ll eat, get drunk, and watch something violent and sexy on cable,” Taylor said.
“Oh my God. Where have you been all my life?”
“At the risk of sounding too sweet for words, right under your nose.”
“Uh-uh. You weren’t always like this. I knew you.”
“Well, then, you were the only one.” She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see him pause at her words. How could he say he knew her when she hadn’t known the real Taylor until the moment at the altar when she’d declared her independence in front of three hundred and fifty guests and her gobsmacked parents?
Shrugging his shoulders, Lucky swallowed the last gulp of his beer before foraging in the cabinets for plates, and grabbed two more beers from the fridge. Taylor maneuvered the hot casserole onto the countertop, almost losing her grip on the dish when he reached up, exposing the deep grooves of his abdomen and the trail of dark-blond hair disappearing under his waistband. Suddenly her hunger for the casserole was eclipsed by a deeper need.
He looked down and caught her gawking, but she didn’t look away. The attraction simmering between them overpowered even the temperature of the oven. Tonight, she was going to make him face it and do something about it. She straightened up and began spooning portions of the amazing casserole on their plates. “Let’s go eat.”
Three hours later, the room swirled a little when she reached for her beer on the coffee table.
“Are you drunk?” Lucky asked.
“Nope. Just tipsy.” She smiled at him, letting her eyes linger on the scruff on his jaw, the blond highlights catching the muted light in the room. She remembered how good that felt against her skin, marking her with a pink flush the morning after. “Even you look good.”
“Oh, then you must be drunk.” He laughed, eyes twinkling with his own amusement over the rim of the beer bottle as he took another drink.
The alcohol made her movements languid, the fire of desire in her belly spiking to a new temperature with every brush of their hands, shoulders, and feet. The couch was big enough for several people, but they’d remained close together, pulled by their own sexual gravity toward each other.
She leaned her head back and looked up at the high ceiling bracketed by heavy molding. “I really love this house.”
“You do?” Lucky turned his head on the cushion next her, his expression puzzled. “I thought you hated this house. That’s why you want to sell it.”
“No. I want to sell it because I need the money, but I don’t hate it. It’s beautiful.” She altered her position to face him, close enough breathe in his aftershave. She’d have his