“Gave you enough liquor to knock you out.”
“Don’t underestimate me,” she bragged as she took a long swig. “I can outdrink most men.”
Something he’d never believe if he didn’t know better. She couldn’t weigh more than a buck fifteen wet. “Another secret?” he asked. “Like letting a man win at darts?”
Her feminine laughter made him smile. She’d pretended to be a novice dart player the first couple of nights they hung out—clearly a deceptive move. The following week she challenged him for money, and he felt like a heel for accepting the bet. An hour later, he owed her a C-note.
She held up her hands in mock surrender. “No more tricks, promise.”
“Good,” he growled, sitting on the edge of the sofa near her feet. He plucked her other shoe off, placing it next to its mate on the coffee table. Her toenails were painted bright red, matching her fingernails and lipstick. “You’re color coordinated.”
“More like coded. Sometimes I wear pink or blue. Want to know what red means?”
He massaged her toes on the good foot—instantly hard. “Tell me.”
“It means I want to fuck.”
That mouth…He groaned, his body on fire. Only her. Another girl wouldn’t risk talking like that to him, not even a pass-around. Vincent had buttons, and when pushed, he lost control too easily. “Fuck who?” He took a deep breath.
“Maybe you,” she teased.
Pure torture, but he still considered her untouchable because they were so different. She’d left him in a daze after the wedding and he’d needed to fuck something to alleviate the frustration. It ended in a one-night stand with a stranger, something he regretted to this day.
“Don’t toy with me, little girl,” he warned. “You know the rules inside the clubhouse.” If she needed a reminder, he’d gladly give her a quick tutorial. Brothers didn’t ask twice once a woman offered herself.
“Unless you’ve gone through some kind of metamorphosis—a born-again Vincent or something crazy like that—I’m pretty sure I’m safe on your watch.”
Once upon a time he would have been all over her. But she’d experienced his hesitation too many times to believe he’d ever act. Time to get his man card back. He closed his eyes, fantasizing what it would feel like to have her pussy wrapped around his dick, clenching in orgasm. She reminded him of a gypsy—always wearing oversized gold hoops and braids. Fuck, he wanted her. He squeezed her foot, his fingers sliding up her petal-soft leg. Nothing wrong with a quick kiss for memory’s sake.
“Vincent,” she whispered.
His eyes snapped open. Why did she have to call his name in that raspy, I-want-to-fuck-you voice? Careful to balance his weight so he didn’t crush her, he crawled over her. Fuck. One call of his name and he’d lost it. And as he’d always suspected, months apart hadn’t done anything to cool his attraction. He slanted his hungry mouth over hers, his tongue seeking the warmth and heat inside hers. Unrelenting magnetism drove him, a fucking gnawing hunger that refused to go away. Vincent didn’t want to cross the line, but the opportunity to purge his system of anything remotely linked to the woman clawing at his arms was hard to resist.
His tongue spiraled with hers, sinking deeper, wrestling for dominance. He fisted both of his hands in her long hair, a soft floral scent invading his senses, her full breasts crushed against his chest. Then he pumped his hips. One swipe of his hand and he could unzip his pants—a second would have her short skirt and panties out of the way.
Reluctance gone, he invaded her halter top, his fingers finding an erect nipple. He pinched it hard, kissing her ruthlessly at the same time. Her goddamned painted-on leather top didn’t give him enough room for his big hands—to massage and tongue-fuck her breasts.
The mental barriers were too strong. He broke the kiss—staring down at her. “Tina…”
She frowned. “Why did you stop?”
“For the same reason I did half a year ago.”
“Bullshit.”
Please, someone hit me over the head. Everything he wanted was spread underneath him and willing—panting and angry. Fire flared inside her eyes, making her all the more desirable. God forgive him for being an emotional coward. Vincent’s heart was the only reluctant organ he possessed. If he fucked Tina, he’d fall in love. No question about it.
He rolled off the sofa and his knee hit the concrete floor.
“You’re a bastard,” she complained, adjusting her clothes. “I should have known better.”
Vincent gritted his teeth, wanting to shut her up with another kiss. He stared at her plump lips. “Here.” He handed her the vodka cranberry. “Finish this and I’ll carry you into my bedroom.”