his naughtiest, his nastiest fantasies.
Sometimes, a man just needed something to hold on to, and she was it for him.
“Hello, Rafer.”
Rafer stared hard at the young woman standing on his porch, watching him expectantly.
He lifted his gaze, checked the position of the moon, and gave a mental nod.
Yep, it was midnight.
Now all he had to decide was if this lovely, too-alluring vision was a figment of his fantasies coming to life or if fate was standing behind the lovely Cami Flannigan, laughing her ass off while he stood there with a hard dick.
Hell, he could always take his chances. After all, he’d made a huge gamble returning once again to the small town that had spawned him, hadn’t he? What was that if it wasn’t the dumbest decision of his life? This one couldn’t be any worse, now could it?
“You’re not naked,” he drawled, deciding to go with the fantasy idea. And boy, did he have enough fantasies where Cami Flannigan was concerned.
Black lace, candlelight, slick, wet flesh, and hungry-feminine-moaning type fantasies that he couldn’t manage to shake. He’d only had her three times in the past five years and the last time was three years ago. It wasn’t hardly enough.
The vision of creamy flesh and blue-ringed velvet gray eyes blinked back at him before narrowing in feminine offense. “I have to be naked to knock on your door?”
There was a sudden snap to her tone that had a smile wanting to curl his lips. Damn, he surely did love that tone in her voice. It just made his dick harder, just made all his little perverted fantasies push to the forefront of his mind. But it also made him doubt that it was possible this was a fantasy. Only the real version of Cami spoke to him with that snap in her voice.
Yes she was acting less and less like a figment of a fantasy by the second. Especially when she propped a slender hand on her cocked hip and glared back at him as though he had crawled from beneath a rock. When had Cami begun looking at him like that?
A sigh of resignation escaped his chest. A man could dream, couldn’t he?
“It depends on why you’re here,” he still answered her, though, and he still kept to the program.
Fantasy. Erotic. Hard dick.
That little frown brewing between perfectly arched — plucked or waxed? he wondered — dark brows tightened.
Was her pussy still waxed? The first time he’d glimpsed those perfectly bare folds he’d nearly come in the sheets rather than her snug little pussy.
“I can’t imagine the reason why it would matter. Did one of those bulls you breed butt your head a little too hard or something? I’m stuck in the snow, Rafer. Why else would I be standing in the middle of a blizzard on your front porch?”
For his hard dick?
The words almost slipped past his lips.
“What did you say?” She blinked back at him in outraged amazement.
Oops, maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
He smiled back at her, still not certain. “I said something?”
He arched a brow. He’d learned early that the gesture tended to throw most people off and he used it shamelessly.
Hell, maybe he’d just drunk too much damned whisky. That was always a possibility.
Suspicion filled her eyes, narrowed them, and thinned her lips. “I’m pretty certain you did,” she informed him between clenched teeth. “And I’m really certain it was uncalled for.”
Well, he didn’t know how uncalled for it was. It was honest. A man could hope.
“I might be drunk.” He cleared his throat as she continued to stare, anger beginning to shadow her gray eyes. “Can I blame it on the booze?”
Hell, she did have pretty eyes. They looked like the finest dark gray velvet with a narrow ring of dark blue. He’d always said Cami Flannigan had the prettiest eyes. Anyone could just ask his cousins, Logan and Crowe, they’d tell it; Rafe said it often. So often sometimes that they told him to shut the fuck up.
“‘Might’ hardly describes the situation,” she snorted with ladylike charm. “You reek of booze, Rafer.”
Cami called him Rafer sometimes, rather than the shortened version, Rafe, that most people used. He liked the sound of it on her lips. Especially when she was moaning it. She wasn’t moaning right now.
“That could be possible.” He nodded as his gaze raked over her shivering body. “It just seemed the night for it, I guess.”
He’d only just realized she was shivering, hard. Her hand had dropped from her hip and she was once again huddled against herself. She was obviously cold, dressed in nothing but jeans, boots, and a heavy hooded sweatshirt that proclaimed:
He wondered if she would let him warm her. He knew exactly how to do it. How to touch her so her eyes darkened in passion, how to make the juices slicken the delicate tissue of her tight pussy.
“Stop undressing me with your eyes, Rafer,” she ordered. “Could you at least let me in where it’s warm? Or perhaps drive me home? My car is stuck in the snow out by the main road.” She waved her hand toward the drive, now covered in nearly a foot of snow in less than an hour. “Surely you still have a four-by-four?”
All his fantasies came crashing down on him. No fantasy. She wasn’t there for his hard dick, candlelight, or black lace. She was there because her car was stuck in the snow.
Lifting his gaze again, he stared into the blizzard. The whiteout conditions were only increasing. Travel would be impossible, let alone getting the car out of wherever it was stuck.
So this wasn’t the erotic fourth chance of a lifetime standing on his doorstep. The first three chances hadn’t been nearly enough to satisfy him, let alone to sate the hunger he had for her.
“Rafer, are you all right?” Suspicion laced her voice. “Are you smoking something you shouldn’t be as well as drinking too much whisky tonight?”
He snorted at that as his gaze dropped back to her. Short, sassy layered strands of dark brown hair framed almost kittenish features as big gray eyes blinked back at him. Suspicious gray eyes. She thought he was high?
He wasn’t that lucky.
“I told you, I might be a little drunk.” He sighed, glancing at the snow again. “But not too drunk to know we’re not going anywhere in this storm.” He turned back to her, arched his brow, smiled. “Looks like you’re stuck here with me, Cami-girl. Unless you want to take your chances in the snow?” He nodded toward the storm outside the porch. “Personally, I’m not willing to take that risk with my truck or my life.” And especially not with her life.
Rafe watched her still for the briefest second before turning to look out at the storm herself.
Her shoulders seemed to slump, as though whatever weight she carried was too much for her. He wished he could see her face, look in her eyes and read her thoughts as he had when she was younger. But hell, it seemed those days were gone. When she turned back to him, all he saw in her face, or in her eyes, was weariness — weariness and resignation.
That look made his chest ache. Son of a bitch, Cami should never have such a look in her eyes.
“Come on in; I’ll make coffee.” Hell, he might as well sober up. A man had to learn to keep his wits about him when dealing with a Flannigan. Especially this one.
“I can’t stay, Rafer.” Pure tempered steel filled her voice as well as her expression as she stared back to him, the quiet, even tone at odds with the conflict he could see in her eyes.
What the hell had happened to the sweet, loving Cami he had once known?
“Afraid temptation will get the best of you?” Letting his gaze drift over her, Rafe made damned certain she remembered everything he knew she wanted to forget.
She flushed. Her gray eyes darkened in both arousal as well as anger. Temptation was the least of her worries. It wasn’t the temptation that was going to get her back into his bed. It was the memories that would accomplish that. The memories of pleasure so hot, so intense it had sent her running in fear when she thought he had finally gone to sleep. Oh yeah, he had her now and there would be no escape. At least, not until someone managed to dig the snow out of his road.
