“No problem. Let me get you those dry sweats.”
When she moved to rise, Chance offered her a hand, taking a little too long to let go. Once again, she looked at him curiously, appraisingly, not the impatient go-to-hell sort of glares he was getting earlier. She probably didn’t realize that her mouth was slightly open, her eyes slightly darker, and he didn’t feel it was in his best interest to point out either feature to her. But he noticed. Something was changing….
As she walked from the other room, his mind was full of sinful ideas that should have shamed a more gentlemanly man. But Chance had a full appreciation for the biological desires and habits that had been preordained when man had arisen from the primordial ooze with his cock fully erect.
He liked Devon Franklin. She wasn’t his usual pornolicious bedmate, but she intrigued him. Not many women were that cynical and hard-nosed, but still wore flowery flannel. He ached to know what was underneath all that flannel, and undercover recon of the female form was what Chance Cooper did best.
He was happily pondering his path to seduction when a long rumble of thunder shook the house, rattling the foundation and sending the cannonball rolling across the floor.
Where it landed on top of his foot.
Considering the impurity of his thoughts, Chance thought it was no more than he deserved.
4
ONCE SHE WAS SAFELY IN HER BEDROOM, Devon collapsed on the four-poster, and exhaled a breath she didn’t know she’d been keeping. The house shook, not that she was worried; the specially reinforced concrete foundation was built to withstand 400 PSF.
If she truly played the odds, she would retrieve a pair of sweats, get Chance Cooper safely clothed and then kick him out of her house so that she could experience the rest of this day in easy disassociative peace, where nothing bad could intrude.
But right then, she didn’t want peace—or not that kind of peace. She wanted a piece of Chance. He was darling, and sexy, and the sort of womanizing Casanova that she needn’t feel guilty in case he got stung by a bee…or some other mildly poisonous insect. He was a man who could take care of himself.
A man who could take care of her.
She closed her eyes, imagining those hands on her, and her heart raced in double time, constricting the flow of oxygen to her brain, causing her to sigh, a breathy, exhilarated sound, often signifying delight.
On April Fools’, how often did she get to sigh with delight instead of defeat? Not once.
Hadn’t she earned this? She’d seen the liquid heat in those clever eyes. All she had to do was say the word, and he’d be on her like gasoline on dying coals.
But how to seduce a man like that? She wasn’t Bubbles McBimbo with come-on lines that rolled off her tongue. Her underwear drawer consisted of exactly one thong, a present from a short-lived boyfriend, that had EAT ME on it. Not the image she wanted to present. Not to Chance. Not today.
She contemplated the monitor, the ever vigilant, all-seeing eye, and then smiled to herself. Security had its price, but security had its pleasures, too.
Could she do this? Of course.
Her mind made up, she moved to the screen on the wall, pushed the button to display the living room camera and then retrieved her brother’s old sweats from the drawer. If things went according to plan, Chance wouldn’t be needing those. For a few greedy seconds, she imagined him, and a flash of lust shot right between her thighs. She could imagine his hard body primed and waiting for her; all she had to do was put on a show. Painfully aware of the camera in the room, she watched herself in the mirror as her hand went to the top button on her gown, flicking it open.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the video feed from the living room, and sure enough, there was Chance, focused on the image of her. The sharp look of need on his face gave her all the encouragement she needed; she flicked another button open, and then two.
Her palms slid beneath the fabric, cupping her breasts, and she tilted her head back, feeling the growing desire guiding her actions.
Her body began to sway, not like dancing, that would be too obvious. No, this was the simple hip-curling movements that spoke of a woman who was in the throes of sexual arousal.
Her breasts felt heavy and swollen under her hands, her senses heightened to near breaking, and she pushed her gown off one shoulder, exposing a tight nipple to cold, biting air and she gasped.
On her monitor, she could see him standing alongside the tiny screen. His back was to her, and she wished she could see the expression on his face, but all she saw were the rigid cords in his neck, the steely line of his shoulders and the firm muscles in his back straining against his thin T-shirt. Although her sampling of men wasn’t as large as she would have liked, and most of her dates ran to the disastrous, Devon knew an aroused man when she saw one.