Even with the wedged heels that Boyd had resented, she only came up to Ford’s chin. When he’d been seventeen, he’d been this tall, but he’d been much rangier from not having enough to eat, and also from working two, sometimes three jobs in a day. That had been before he’d gotten onto the sailing circuit and made a decent living in endorsements. Though looking at him now, one would never know money was no longer an issue. The man might drive her crazy, but he didn’t have a pretentious bone in his perfect body.
And the body… goodness. He’d filled it out, with solid muscle and a double dose of testosterone. There was also a level of confidence, an air that said he’d listen to whatever anyone had to say but that he wouldn’t necessarily give two shits about it. She met his gaze and drew a shaky breath.
He didn’t move. His eyes were dark and unfathomable, his body relaxed and at ease. He was waiting for her to speak, or maybe, better yet, to go away. “Thank you for doing this,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” His voice was lower now, and slightly rough as well, leaving her with the oddest and most inexplicable urge to reach up and put her hand on his face to soothe him.
She’d done that for him, once upon a time. She’d been there to listen, to ease his aches, to touch him when he needed.
He’d done the same for her.
They’d healed each other.
And now there was a huge gaping hole between them, and she had no idea how to cross it.
Or if she even wanted to.
No, that was a lie. A part of her wanted to cross it. Badly. But before she could go there, he turned away, going back to stocking her cabinets. Which he was doing simply because her sisters had asked him.
They couldn’t have found anyone better equipped for the job. Ford had always cooked. Hell, he ran a bar and grill for fun. He, better than anyone else she knew, understood what a kitchen needed and how it should be organized. She watched as he picked up a twenty-pound bag of flour as if it were nothing and set it on the counter to open it.
He had her pretty flour container next to it, ready to be filled, and she moved in. “Here, let me.”
“I’ve got it.”
“I’m here, Ford. You might as well make the best of it. I’m not going to just stand around and watch you do all the work.”
When he didn’t stop his movements, she gave him a little hip nudge and reached for the bag.
“Fine.” Raising his hands in surrender, he backed up, just as she ripped the bag open with slightly too much force. Flour exploded out of the bag. After a few stunned beats, she blinked rapidly to clear her eyes, and looked at herself. Covered in flour. She lifted her head and eyed Ford, who was wisely fighting his smile. “You did this on purpose,” she said.
“No, that was all you.”
She attempted to shake herself off. “Better?”
He ran a hand over his mouth, probably to hide his smile. “Yes.”
“You’re lying,” she said, eyes narrowed.
“Yes.”
Okay, that was it. She stalked toward him.
Laughing out loud now, Ford straightened. “Whatever you’re planning to do,” he warned. “Don’t.”
“Oh, Sugar.” Didn’t he know better than to tell her what to do by now? “Watch me.” She backed him up against the counter and held him there-plastering herself to him from chest to belly to thigh… and everything in between-on a one-woman mission to cover him in flour, too. “Gotcha,” she said triumphantly as she rubbed up against him. “Now you’re just as big a mess as me.”
His hands were at her hips. “Is that right?” His voice sounded different now. Lower. Rough as sandpaper.
And heat slashed right through her. “Uh-huh.” She bit her lip, realizing that her voice was different, too, and that she was staring at his mouth.
And then she realized something else. She wasn’t breathing.
He wasn’t, either.
Of their own accord, her hands slid up his chest, wrapped around his neck, and then… oh God, and then.
Ford said her name on a rough exhale. Holding her against the hard planes of his body, his eyes filled with a quiet intensity, he lowered his head. “Stop me if you’re going to,” he said in quiet demand, all humor gone.
Tara sucked in some air, but didn’t stop him. Not when his lips came down on hers, and not when he kissed her until she couldn’t remember her own name.
Chapter 7
“Accept that some days you’re the bug, and some days you’re going to be the windshield.”
TARA DANIELS
Dazed, Ford tightened his grip on Tara, hearing the groan that her kiss wrenched from deep in his throat. She was kissing him. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d hauled off and decked him. But having her push him up against the counter and kiss him hard like she was… oh, yeah. Way better than anything that had happened all day.
All damn year.
Ah, hell. Clearly she’d finally done it, she’d driven him bat-shit crazy, but she felt so good against him. Warm and soft, willing. Amazing.
And aggressive.
Christ, there was nothing more irresistible than Tara on a mission. And that he was that mission made it even better.
She pulled back slightly and he smiled. “Was that supposed to be punishment?”
“Yes.” Her fingers curled into his shirt. “So be quiet and take it like a man.”
Ford was still smiling when she kissed him this time, but the amusement faded fast, replaced by a blinding, all-consuming need.
All too soon, she pulled back again, eyes dark, mouth wet from his. “Is there anyone in your bed?” she asked, her voice low and extremely southern.
He loved the way her accent thickened when she felt something particularly deeply. “No,” he said. “There’s no one in my bed.” Except for her, hopefully. Soon. Because this was waaay better than pushing each other’s buttons.
“Just wanted to make sure.” With each word, her lips just barely grazed his, making him all the hotter. Tightening his grip on her, he whipped them around, trapping her between him and the counter. The scent of her was as intoxicating as her kiss, and when she stared at his lips and licked hers, something inside him snapped. Hauling her up against him, flour and all, he let loose the pent-up yearning and temper and ache he’d been barely reining in.
She hesitated for less than a beat before tightening her grip on him and kissing him back with a passion that nearly knocked them both to their asses. “No one’s here?” he asked against her mouth.
“No one.”
He had her divested of her short, lightweight sweater and was working on the buttons of her dress, thinking this was the best idea he’d ever had. No more dancing around each other. From now on, all their dancing would be done naked. Naked was good. Naked was great.
Tara appeared to feel the same. Her hands were everywhere, his chest, his arms, his ass, stroking and tormenting. The only sound was their heavy breathing and the sexy little murmur she let out when he cupped her breasts.
He remembered that sound. He’d dreamed about that sound. She writhed under his touch, pressing closer, like she needed to climb up his body-which he was all for, by the way. Her fingers found their way beneath his shirt, running lightly over the skin low on his abs, just above his low-riding jeans.
Ford wanted more and took it, letting his hands do the walking and talking beneath her clothes. There was no question about what they were doing now, or why. No thinking. Just feeling, and God help him, he was feeling a whole hell of a lot. Soul-deep, wrenching hunger. And need.
Nothing new when it came to Tara.
His next staggering thought, more than the feel of her hands beneath his shirt gliding downward, caught him. The last time they’d done this, they’d nearly destroyed each other.
Or at least Tara had destroyed him. Ford still wasn’t clear on what she’d felt. She’d been good at holding back. She didn’t seem to be holding back now. Her touch felt so damn good his eyes nearly rolled back in his head, and that was before she went for the button on his Levi’s, banishing his ability to think. Yeah, baby. Go there.