The Trouble With Tomboys(18)

But the disappearing act kind of stung. It told her without a doubt their encounter had been a mistake.

B.J. nodded to herself, mentally repeating that 49







it had indeed been a stupid, careless blunder as she slumped toward the bed. Not bothering to put on clothes, she dropped the towel and crawled under the covers.

Curling into a tight ball, she lay there. She shouldn’t have left him out here alone. Or better yet, she shouldn’t have pushed him into any of this tonight. She should’ve just shut up and let it all alone. Damn it, she shouldn’t have been so rude, and she certainly shouldn’t have kissed him.

But she had. She’d done it all.

He was probably in his room, feeling as guilty as hell. He hadn’t planned on ever being with another woman again. Something inside her told her he hadn’t. Not that it mattered. She’d destroyed his plans and felt like a piece of crap for it.

“What a complete mess,” she announced to the quiet room.

Then, unable to help it, she burst into tears.

“God, what’s wrong with me?” she muttered.

B.J. Gilmore, the tomboy of Tommy Creek,

Texas, never cried. But, tonight, she did. She let the tears flow as she bawled herself to sleep.

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Chapter Five


Grady crawled out of bed before dawn. All night, he kept jerking awake every half hour, haunted by erotic images, until he finally grew fed up with trying to sleep and shoved the sheets off his burning skin. He took a shower. As the water sluiced over his shoulders and through his hair, steaming the air around him, he closed his eyes, rested a hand against the shower wall, and bowed his head.

Deciding this had to be about the most confusing moment of his life, he let out a long breath and lifted his face to the spray.

From one perspective, he wanted to hate B.J.

Gilmore. She had no right to pressure him into doing anything he didn’t want to do, something he hadn’t been prepared to do. This was his life. He decided when he was ready to move on and when he wasn’t.

Damn some hot-headed tomboy who thought he

needed a little prodding.

On the other hand, he wanted to return to her room, lock them both inside, and continue where they’d left off. She’d been right about one thing.

Going without sex for too long couldn’t be

healthy... hadn’t been healthy. It’d turned him into a maniac, an utter savage. He just wanted to tie her to the nearest bed and keep her there for two weeks straight. He wanted to pound and rut until she passed out from orgasm overdose. The things he had in mind would make it so she’d never walk right again.

God.

Rippling with need, his dick lengthened and his 51







balls tightened. His body wanted more of B.J.

Gilmore, and it didn’t care what he had to do to get her. Yet decency told him he should apologize. His mother hadn’t raised him to be the type of man who kicked up a woman’s skirt twice in a row without protection and then ditched out on her at the first opportunity. He was better than that. A gentleman.

Guilt clogged his throat, and he swallowed,

trying to work it loose.

Truth be told, he wouldn’t have survived if he’d stayed in her room. His nerves were rent to hell, and every particle of his being felt scattered and disorganized. He didn’t know who he was or how to be. He just knew he had to get as far away from her as possible.

In his entire life, he’d only been with one

woman. He’d dated Amy for three years until they’d had sex on the night of their junior prom. At that point, it was a given they’d eventually marry. So, he’d never thought he’d be with anyone else. She’d been “the one.” He’d assumed he’d never have another for the rest of his life. But he’d had B.J., the very woman his dead wife had helped raise.

He’d always thought of her as the mouthy little Gilmore tomboy whose mama had died in a car

accident when she was only three. B.J. was a tough hard-ass who didn’t take crap from anyone. Grady had never looked at her in a sexual light before, not until he’d glanced at her in the elevator and seen her nipples poking through her wet shirt, making him want to warm them with his breath. Of course, she’d been talking to him about sex, so at that point it was the only thing on his mind. But Grady was thirty-two years old, for Christ’s sake. He should’ve had more restraint. The mere sight of a woman’s tits definitely shouldn’t have pushed him over the edge.

Yet it had.

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And now, here he was...confused. There was

shame, sure. He’d just been with a woman who wasn’t his wife—whom he never intended to make his wife—and he’d liked it. It went against every single old-fashioned moral fiber he possessed.