“So I’m ready when you are,” he continued.
She nearly choked on her schnapps. “Ready for what?”
“Aren’t you supposed to teach me to be a gentleman for the media?”
All right, she’d been wrong. He wasn’t flirting or looking to improve himself to impress her. This was a career move. Of course it was—as it should be.
“Not tonight.” She drew her knees up to her chest, looped her arms around them. Yet even in the protective tucked position, she couldn’t stop herself from staring at his mouth.
“What can you teach me tonight?” He stared right back.
“I thought you were tired,” she said. “I thought you were sore.”
“I’m better now. Your massage cured me. I’m just…damn, Kimberly…” He moved in close, cornering her on her end of the sofa, gently trapping her. On one side she could feel the glow of warmth from the fire. On the other was Bo, a wall of solid heat. He was making a mockery of her vow to resist him.
She tried. She really did, curling her hands into fists and pushing against his chest. But after the hot tub at Camp Kioga, it was even harder to keep her distance. Somehow, it only seemed to draw him closer, a gesture of resistance that turned into a kiss.
She rationalized the impulse. Perhaps this time she wouldn’t be so swept away, as she’d been after the photo shoot. Perhaps she’d discover her interest was misplaced. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been taken in by a pretty face and great hair. Here was a guy with an agenda, a guy who had too much going on in his life, who had a whole host of priorities stacked above her. How good could it be?
As it turned out, this was not just any kiss. This was her favorite kind. The I’ve-been-wanting-you-since-the-moment-I-saw-you kiss. Making out in the hot tub had only been a prelude. He was tender and generous, yet at the same time completely honest, in a nonverbal way, about what he was feeling. He held her close and kissed her and told her with every inch of his body exactly how he wanted her.
Kim felt dizzy with the sheer, raw need she felt. It was a powerful contrast to the usual warm attraction she’d had for former boyfriends—even Lloyd, whose memory spun away on a wisp of thought. All of those past desires were burned to ash when she kissed Bo Crutcher. She’d thought the first time had been a fluke, that she’d felt turned on by the moonlit setting and the champagne, and the completion of a fine day of work at something she loved.
Now she couldn’t deny that there was a lot more going on. This was so wholly unexpected that she pulled back with a gasp, torn between bolting for the door and asking him for more. The latter impulse nearly won out. Her limbs felt warm and heavy, and all she wanted was to melt against him. Drawing on her last reserves of willpower, she tried to pull away.
“Not so fast,” Bo whispered, keeping his arms around her. “I’ve been wanting to do this again ever since that time in the hot tub. And I got to say, honey, I am not disappointed.”
She tried to deny the warm affection she heard in his voice. “This is such a bad idea. How many reasons do I need to give you?”
“None, because none of them would make a bit of difference for me,” he said easily. “And I lied earlier. There is something I’m disappointed in.”
She extricated herself from his embrace and sat back, arms folded in a shield across her chest. Now he was talking like the kind of man she had sworn off. Self-absorbed. Critical—hypercritical—of others. Particularly of her.
“You’re disappointed in me,” she said.
“In us,” he corrected her.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He smiled, then gently unfolded her arms. He leaned forward to press a kiss to her mouth, the light play of his lips on hers slowly dismantling her resistance. He tasted and felt so good that her toes curled inside her woolen socks.
“Honey, what I mean is, don’t get me wrong. I like making out with you. But I’m disappointed, because what I really want is to make love to you.”
Kim didn’t move a muscle, but she knew she was inches from a mad impulse to rip off her clothes, right then and there. She tried to take offense. “That’s rude.”
“Rude to want you, or rude to say so?”
“Both.” She realized she was still clinging to him. She let him go. Instantly, she grabbed him again. This was insane, but she couldn’t help herself. “We’ll go to my room. And you’re not spending the night. And we’re not telling a soul.”
“Those are your ground rules?”
“Yes.” She jutted her chin up in defiance.
He offered a low, murmuring laugh. “Yeah? Well, I got a few rules of my own.”
Good, she thought. He was going to spoil everything by being a jerk. And then she wouldn’t be attracted to him anymore, and that way, no one would get hurt.
“What kind of rules?” she asked.
“Rule number one is, you let me know how you want me to make love to you. I mean that. I want to know what you like, and you have to tell me without getting all bashful about it. Or, if you can’t help feeling bashful, you could try to let me know like this. Hand signals.” He demonstrated, his hands slipping up under her sweater.
She was so stunned, she neither spoke nor moved.
“Rule number two is, you have to let this be all about you. No worrying about reciprocation, nothing like that. Because believe me, if I’m making love to you, I’m already getting exactly what I want.” With studied gentleness, he slid his hand down and unbuttoned the waistband of her jeans.
“And rule
