I hesitate. Do I really want to start down this path? True, I have a weakness for polished blondes, but that hasn’t turned out great for me in the past.
Then again, I did come over here intending to one-up my ex.
Lisa’s hand slides a few inches up my thigh, and I find myself grunting an answer. “Nope. Grudge fucks are not a problem.”
Her face breaks into a broad smile, and my chest tightens unexpectedly. Holy hell, she’s gorgeous when she does that. I grip my beer and remind myself to keep a tight grip on my sanity while I’m at it.
“Well, Dax Kensington,” Lisa says, licking her lips. “Shall we get out of here?”
Chapter 3
Lisa
Does it count as false bravado if I really, really want to be the sort of brave, confident, sexy woman who’d bring a tattooed bad boy home for a one-night stand?
This, and other thoughts, are whirling through my brain as I unlock the front door to my condo and usher Dax inside. “Pardon the mess,” I tell him, breathing in the pleasant scent of pomegranate and mission fig wafting from the Pottery Barn diffuser on the credenza. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Dax steps into my living room and turns a slow circle, a bit like a bull in a china shop. A really big, virile bull.
I swallow hard as he turns back to face me. “This looks like something out of a home decorating magazine,” he says. “Where exactly is the mess?”
I frown and hustle forward to straighten the coffee table book that’s at a 65-degree angle instead of a 45-degree angle. There’s also a teaspoon in the sink from my morning Earl Grey, and I rush over to load it in the dishwasher.
It occurs to me this is not how most women kick off an episode of wild, no-strings sex.
“Sorry,” I say, not sure if I’m apologizing for the teaspoon or the fact that I’m behaving like Martha Stewart on speed. “I’m, uh…a little new at this.”
He studies me a moment, those icy-blue eyes assessing. Then he nods. “Look, we don’t have to do anything if that was all a show for your sisters.”
“What?”
He shrugs and offers a heartbreakingly kind look, which is sooo different from the smoldering gaze he should be giving a woman he wants to shag silly.
God, I’m blowing this.
“I get it,” he says as he leans back against the wall of my foyer, the sympathy in his eyes making me want to hide under the dining room table. “I promise you won’t hurt my feelings if that was just an act for Missy and Cassie. How about I give you a hickey for proof, and then I’ll be on my way. You’ll never have to see me again.”
I’m touched that he’d offer something like that. Okay, maybe not the hickey. Still, it shows he’s concerned about me. That he’s giving me a chance to change my mind or back out. Or wait.
Is he the one who wants to back out?
Determined to take the bull—did I mention he’s quite a virile bull?—by the horns, I smooth my hands down the front of my Diane von Furstenberg pencil skirt and square my shoulders.
“I can assure you, I totally want to screw.” I wince at my own words, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. “People don’t say that, do they?”
Dax shakes his head, a bemused glint in his eye. There’s a sexiness in his smile that wasn’t there five seconds ago, and my pulse ticks up a notch. “People don’t generally say that,” he confirms. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t hot as hell, though.”
I take a shaky breath and wonder what happened to my bravado. It seems to be evaporating now that I’m here in my home revealing how very uncool I am. “Um, look—could we maybe sit and…uh, talk first, or something?”
He laughs and pushes himself off the wall. He moves closer to me, close enough to brush the tips of my fingers with his knuckles. He takes my right hand in his, then the left, making goose bumps prickle all the way up my arms.
“For the record,” he says, “it’s not my MO to pounce on a woman the second I walk through the door. Not unless she asks me to.”
The fact that he phrased it that way sends a funny shudder of relief through me. I’m not sure if it’s because I like knowing one of us has some experience here, or that I appreciate the acknowledgment that I’m calling the shots. That I have the right to say no at any time.
But “no” is the last thing on my mind as he strokes my knuckles with the pad of one oversized thumb. It’s gentle and warm, and I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it. The gesture is almost as soothing as the earthy, sagebrush scent of his cologne or aftershave or deodorant or whatever the hell it is. Maybe it’s just Dax. In any case, my shoulders start to unclench.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” I clear my throat and take a half-step toward the kitchen. “Let me just pour us some wine?—”
