Just Fooling Around(36)

CHANCE WAITED. By now, the tequila had worn off, and he was stuck with an extra weight on his leg, and an extra six inches in his shorts.

Holy shit. Who would have thought it?

The woman—Devon Franklin was what her Stanford University diploma said—had prepared for any and all emergencies. He’d only met one other woman who’d stocked a hacksaw, and after he’d discovered her fondness for Spanish Inquisition-style torture, he’d understood why. Leather and steel just didn’t fire his juices. He liked bare, sweaty skin against his chest, big squishy globes of female sexuality that made him happy to be a man.

Devon Franklin had globes. No, they weren’t big and squishy, but those weren’t mosquito bites, either. His mind wandered, pondering the exact size, color, shape and palm fit of her globes, and before he knew it, his mind had her naked and panting, and…

Whoa.

He shifted in his jeans, wearing a hard-on that no amount of denim was going to hide. Maybe he wasn’t in such a hurry to get back to the base after all.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement and he wheeled around, but it was only the security monitors on her wall. Only.

Was she in witness protection? Doubtful. Little Miss Devon Franklin was nobody’s fool. She would have taken down whoever was out to get her first.

While he was contemplating her don’t-tread-on-me personality, conflicted with the sultry mysteries of her body, he noticed her image flickering on the tiny screen. It probably wouldn’t be right to spy, but they were her security monitors, and she was aware they were there, and what was he going to do? Glue his eyeballs shut?

Right. His conscience now free, he watched as she dug into her closet, neatly putting aside an eye-popping array of tools.

Actuary and engineer, since a hardware store sure as hell didn’t have that many tools. One by one she pulled out a hammer, two sets of wrenches—metric and standard, three pairs of safety goggles, a crowbar and a vibrator.

He kept his laugh low, starting to like this Devon Franklin, ever practical, ever prepared.

She put the saw on the bed and then sauntered over to her bedroom mirror. Her hands moved to the long braid that trailed down her back. It surprised him how badly he wanted to see that silky fall of hair framing her sweet face.

Silently he prayed. His breath caught, waiting to see if she was going to let it loose.

But then she scowled at her reflection and the braid stayed in place. Chance shook his head, disappointed with her. Still, she wasn’t immune to him, the night was young and it wasn’t as if Scott was going to come roaring to the rescue. No, for the moment, Chance and Devon were all alone.

“Got it,” she called as she entered the room, holding the saw like a trophy. As she moved toward him, he watched her walk, watched the easy sway of her hips. Not showy, but purposeful. He’d bet everything that she did was purposeful. Having sex, for instance.

Realizing that he was drifting a little too far and a little too often down into the dank gutter of carnal delights, Chance told himself to throttle back. But then she stood opposite him, hacksaw in hand, in that old-lady nightgown that revealed exactly nothing, and his stubborn mind started undressing her all over again.

Unaware of his debauched thoughts, she glanced at him, glanced at the saw, then glanced at the heavy chain around his ankle. “I think you should sit down.”

If he sat down, there was no way in hell she’d miss the hard-on. “I don’t want to mess up your house,” he said, because honestly, she was a very nice lady, and he’d feel a lot more comfortable if she was staring at his ankle, rather than his crotch.

“Please. I can’t do this while you’re looming.”

“No one ever called me a loomer before,” he said, but now he was resigned to defeat. He had tried to stay a gentleman, she had rebuffed his attempts and he had no choice but to willingly go along with whatever things she had in store.

He sat, his legs splayed to give her plenty of cutting room, because that was one big-ass cutting instrument. Sure, she looked competent and efficient, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

She sank to the floor, wedged between his knees, creating even more pornographic images that were cheap and sordid and completely undeserving of such a capable young lady, who’d been nothing but gracious—except for the nose job, but hell, he couldn’t really blame her for that one.

Soft and capable hands shoved up the hem of his jeans and grasped him around the bare calf. Honest to God, it was better than porn.

Chance grabbed the wooden chair arm for support, and tried to ignore the firm feel of her fingers on his bare skin. She took the saw, poised it over the chain and her hands moved back and forth with a slow, steady, rhythmic movement.