Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,76

just … you’re wholesome. And of course I don’t mean you’re not sexy. Haven’t I just been telling you that? I couldn’t have walked out this door just then if you’d paid me.”

She sat up all the way. That all sounded wonderful. Except not. “I’m a little confused. It seems like you’re telling me something else. Something like, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”

Some more with the concerned look. Was she asking him to be concerned? She was not. “I just don’t want you to be hurt,” he said, which was the kind of thing men said just before they hurt you. “You think I’m that wolf you saw, loyal and strong and all, and I’m not. There’s Owen, looking like he’s ready to take out a mortgage right now, because Owen is that guy. I don’t even own a house. The Devils are my third team. And I don’t exactly …” He took a breath, ran his hand through his hair, and said, “See, I don’t even know how to have this conversation.”

All right. She was mad. Probably at herself, but still. She was mad.

She slid off the couch, picked up her glass of wine, and said, “Was I asking you to marry me? What part of ‘Let’s just do this’ didn’t you get? And, yes, I realize I said it all wrong. Geez, can’t I even … Mark was right. I don’t know how to flirt. Why did I tell you all that? I know why. Because I’ve never had a one-night stand. I’m thirty-four, I’ve been single all my life, and I’ve never even done this before. And I don’t know how. I’m so tired of being embarrassed, though. So tired of feeling like I’m not enough. I can’t stand to have you feeling sorry for me, and I can’t stand to think about how I’m going to feel tomorrow. So you know what? I’m just going to go get in my hot tub and pretend this didn’t happen. I don’t need your pity. If I’ve got a … a problem, I’ll take care of it myself. Give myself an alternate reality. You know the three things I’m great at? Masturbation, fantasy, and fellatio. My sexual skills. None of which involve talking.”

She didn’t cry. She might cry later, but she wasn’t crying now. She just said, “And I’m not a PTA mom. My boobs were too big and perky, I was too young and cute, and their husbands stared at me too much. You don’t get my life at all.”

She didn’t think about it any more. She couldn’t. She just turned her back on him, opened the tie to her robe, shrugged her shoulders, and felt the thing slide down her body and hit the floor. She didn’t turn around, because she couldn’t look at him and say this. “And I’m tired of being ashamed of my body,” she told him with the very last of her courage. “I’m not twenty-one anymore, I eat chocolate when I’m stressed, and Spanx don’t work when you’re naked. And I don’t care.”

And then she left.

Whoa.

He gave her a minute. Or more like—he took a minute. And then he headed out after her.

She was out there in the cold dark, lying in the steaming hot tub, her head back against the edge, looking up at the sky. Probably trying not to cry.

He squatted down beside her, got a hand on her head, smoothed her hair back, and said, “Hey.”

She didn’t look at him. She said, “Could you just … not? Don’t be nice. I’m so embarrassed.” As he watched, a tear made it over her lower lid and slid down the side of her face, and he saw the convulsive movement of her throat as she swallowed.

He could have said so many things, but he didn’t think talking was going to do the job.

“Well, hell,” he said, and got his boots and socks off. After that, he ripped off the rest of his clothes, slid in opposite her, let the heat enfold him, and said, “You don’t want to talk? Then you can listen. You’re beautiful, and, yeah, you’re seriously sexy. I’m also going to ask you what the hell you’re talking about. What was that part about spanking? Because you bet a guy could look at your ass and think about that. A guy could look at your ass and have a whole sweet fantasy about it, to tell you the truth. If I’m not supposed to do that, you shouldn’t