Except me.
Shutting down her inner monologue, she concentrated on running her hands over warm male skin and feeling the delight when he shivered and flexed beneath her touch.
“So is this what you always wear to bed?” He reached for and grabbed onto the bottom hem of her ragged sweatshirt. Trace’s sweatshirt, actually, but she’d stolen it from him close to fifteen years ago, so she was pretty sure the statute of limitations had long since passed.
“Maybe.” Did he wish she wore sexy lingerie to bed every night, just in case of a booty call?
“Hmm. I have to say, as much as it shocks me, seeing this whole oversized shirt, tiny shorts combo on you is massively appealing. Makes me wish it was my shirt you were wearing.” He took a nip out of her neck, a possessive bite.
Now she was the one shivering.
Reaching between them, she undid his belt buckle and pushed with frantic hands to lower his jeans. He stepped back and kicked off his boots—no socks . . . he really must have hauled ass to get to the house when she called—and stripped down to his birthday suit.
God, he was beautiful. Though he’d likely disagree. The man wasn’t free of blemishes or marks. No, he had scars upon scars. She could easily guess what they were from, too. Ranch work, working with horses, didn’t leave you without a few permanent souvenirs. But those marks only made him more beautiful in her eyes. A real man who used his body daily for real work. Not lifting weights in some sterile gym, going through the motions looking for definition. No, these were muscles toned by his job, developed from necessity. Not bulky, but cut all the same.
“I seem to be the one lagging behind this time.” She reached for the hem of her sweatshirt but he stilled her hand.
“Let me.” She waited, but he didn’t strip her shirt off. Just stared at her for a long moment, before scooping her up and tossing her on the bed. She laughed as she bounced and he pounced on her, playfully growling and nuzzling into her neck, working his way down to her breasts, still covered by the shirt. As he nipped, the thick fabric muted the worst of the sting. But she still felt every bite, every bit of contact. And loved it all.
Her hands went instinctively to his hair, fingers gliding through the golden brown locks. It was longer again, like he’d forgotten to bother with a haircut. Not out of any sense of style. Just out of sheer lack of time. The strands felt like little silk threads, like the sort of important material she’d never be able to wear. All that rich, impractical texture just begging to be touched and caressed.
He lifted the bottom of the sweatshirt a little, enough to reveal her stomach, and kissed around her belly button. Then he eased down the shorts she wore until they were completely off. As he pressed her legs wider apart, she clamped them back together.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. “Get back up here.”
He smirked, or at least she thought he did in the dark of the bedroom. She wasn’t about to turn on a light now just to check. Not while his face was down there. Hell no.
“I’m exploring. Got a problem with that?”
“Maybe. Can’t we just do what we did before?” Not the most mature of descriptions, but she was sort of limited in this area of living. She motioned for him to climb his way back up her body, but he didn’t budge.
“You’re directing again. What’d we talk about last time?”
“That was then. This is now. And Peyton says get back up here.”
“Red says no.” He pressed a kiss to the crease between her inner thigh and her . . . oh for the love of God. Peyton’s head flopped back and she bit her lip to keep from screaming out. In shock, in pleasure, in confusion, she had no clue. Maybe a mix of all three. But she soon realized Red’s tongue was good for more than just that sweet drawl he played with.
Dammit. Another moment to add to the catalog she flipped through in her dreams.
All too soon, or maybe not soon enough, she was riding the crest of a seriously intense orgasm. And before she could even lift her hands to play with his hair again, he was sliding up her body and into her. Or almost into her . . .
“Christ. Condom?”
“I . . . oh. No.” She didn’t have condoms in her room. And why the hell would she? It wasn’t like she brought men back to the house she shared with her brother and her housekeeper. This was sort of a first for her. “Hold that thought.” Before he could say a word, she slid out from under him and darted into Bea’s room. Her uberworldly, super-chic sister would surely have some in her bathroom or bag. But after coming up surprisingly empty, she dashed across the hall to Trace’s room. In one of the drawers of his bathroom vanity, she struck gold. After her inability to tear just one off, she brought the whole strip and hustled back to her room, tossing the condoms at Red.