‘I’m not a saint,’ he says slowly. ‘I hook up with women, sometimes. But not as often as you’d think if you’ve read some of the shit that’s written online. And I’m guessing you have, because I know you’ve done your research.’
I don’t think about why his explanation spreads warmth through me. ‘There’s a fair bit about you out there,’ I admit.
He turns to face me, expression neutral, those beautiful eyes awash with something that makes me feel kind of gooey. I practically choke at the description. I’m a journalist. The daughter of a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, with my own dreams of one day taking out that honour, and I just described my feelings as ‘gooey’? Mortification has my toes curling. Then again, if the shoe fits …
‘It blew up after the whole ranch social media thing.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Nah. The people who know me know the truth. They’re the only ones I give a shit about.’
I smile at that.
‘What?’
‘It’s just … a very healthy way to look at things.’
‘Aw, shucks. That almost sounds like a compliment, Bailey James.’
‘I think it might have been.’ I move then, bringing my body over his, propping myself up on one elbow. ‘Want another one?’
‘Hey, why not?’
I press a finger to the middle of his chest and slowly, painfully slowly, snake it lower, down his ridged abdomen. ‘You’re really, really good at this.’
His brows shoot up and then he’s laughing, throwing his head back and letting the sound fill the room and my soul.
‘I mean, I kinda hoped you would be, but you never can tell with men like you.’
‘Men like me?’
‘You know, men who might be too big for their boots.’
He grins. ‘Is that what I am?’
‘Well, no, but I mean, youcouldbe. Given how you look, and what you’ve achieved …’
‘You know, you’re making this compliment sound more like an insult.’
I grin. ‘Then let’s quit while we’re ahead.’
His hand moves to my back, stroking my skin softly. ‘You’re really good at this too.’
His words are like gold dust. It’s something I hadn’t even realised I needed—or wanted—to hear. But I inure myself to the pleasure, because I’ve learned not to trust people who say nice things, who make me feel all warm and happy. Kirk was the master of that, and it was all a lie.
‘I’m rusty,’ I say, wrinkling my nose. ‘It’s been a long time. So long I wasn’t sure I’d remember how everything worked.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ He moves his hand to my breast, circling a nipple possessively, as though he was born to touch me.
I nod jerkily, sensations bursting like lights behind my eyelids.
‘Why’s that, darlin’?’
I don’t know when I stopped minding him calling medarlin’. There’s something about the way he says it that’s pure heat. Something about it that jabs right under my skin and stays there.
‘I work hard,’ I say simply, when it’s not simple.
‘So do I.’ He winks. ‘But there are twenty-four hours in the day …’
