As he slowly regained consciousness, he became aware of an incredible softness against his cheek. And the smell of apples. Sweet, cinnamon apples. He tried to open his eyes, wanting to know the source of the delicious aroma, but even that tiny a movement sent a shard of pain rushing through his skill.
“Are you awake?”
A soft voice. A husky voice. A feminine voice. A voice almost as intriguing as that smell. He crawled toward it, one mental step at a time, trying to climb out of the haze clouding his brain and making lead weights of his limbs.
“Ummm...” was the best he could do in response.
“Miles, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe my aunt hit you.”
The sweet-smelling woman’s aunt had hit him? Didn’t sound very dramatic, unless the aunt doubles as a heavyweight.
“She’s old and protective. I don’t imagine she realized a bag of pennies would be that heavy.”
An old lady had hit him causing this pain? With pennies? Not only not dramatic, it was beginning to sound downright pathetic.
“She thought you were someone else. And I can’t imagine what she must have thought, walking in here and seeing us...kissing.”
This time, his eyes flew open in spite of the pain. Kissing? He’d been kissing this delightful sounding, delicious smelling person? That was the type of thing he ought to know, right?
Unfortunately, he couldn’t grab hold of a single thought, couldn’t remember a damn thing because of the jackhammer pounding in his head. Something he regretted when his eyes cleared enough to let him take in the vision of a woman kneeling next to him.
Beautiful. Blonde. Half naked. With long, shining hair that tangled on his own chest because she was leaning over him. And perfect, magnificent breasts almost spilling out of a shimmery white gown, mere inches from his face.
He swallowed, hard, as all the blood not involved in making the veins in his temples pound in agony descended due south. Funny how he could suddenly throb in two spots. His head. And his groin. Fortunately, she didn’t appear to notice.
“Miles? Are you sure you’re all right? I’m so sorry, I didn’t see Aunt Hildy until it was too late.” She glanced at her own fingers. “We were, umh, otherwise occupied.”
Okay, what the hell had he forgotten? And, more important, how would she react if he leaned just a little bit closer and tasted that sweet, tempting curve? Because right now, all he could think about was sliding his tongue under the fabric, teasing that dark, puckered nipple with his lips and pulling one of her legs over his hips to straddle him.
If only he didn’t feel as though someone had buried an ax behind his ears. “Where am I?” His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, the headache increasing with each word he spoke.
“You’re in the kitchen of the Little Bohemie Inn,” the blonde vision replied. “Don’t you remember?”
“No.”
She nibbled at her lip, reminding him of how much he liked kissing women with sultry, pouty bottom lips. At least, he thought he did. For some reason, he wasn’t entirely sure. Not sure of anything, actually.
“You were unconscious for a few minutes. It’s natural that you might be a little confused.” She glanced around the room and lowered her voice. “Do you remember why you’re here at the inn?”
He tried to shake his head, then thought better of it. “No, I don’t. Christ, I don’t remember much of anything.”
A flash of disappointment tugged her brow down and he imagined how that must have sounded. If he’d been kissing her, he must know her. If not, they’d had a fast-moving acquaintance.
“You might need a minute or two for your head to clear.”
He didn’t know which of them she was trying to convince, but appreciated the concern, again wondering how well he knew her. Because, he had to admit it. While her face sparked something deep inside his brain--something instinctive and elemental--he couldn’t have spoken her name if someone put a gun to his head.
“Let me help you get that jacket off,” she continued in that low, sultry whisper, as if afraid someone might overhear. “I’m nervous about you lying here with your gun underneath you.”
Holy crap. A gun. He had a gun? Why would he have a gun?
"I’m armed?”
She nodded, nibbling her lip.
“You’re sure?”
“Shh.” She looked around again. “Keep your voice down. You’re lying here, exposed and vulnerable.”
Exposed? He shifted his eyes, checking everything out, making sure nothing was...er...left undone. Considering the world class hard-on he’d been sporting since she’d leaned over him, he figured he’d have noticed if his pants weren’t fastened. The room wasn’t exactly warm, and he definitely wasn’t feeling a draft. In fact, that particular area of his anatomy was getting damned hot.
“You showed it to me.”
Showed it? His brow shot up. “I did?”
She nodded. “It wasn’t very big.”
Bullshit.
“Your gun, I mean,” she clarified quickly, a faint blush the only indication that she’d correctly interpreted the half-offended, half-disbelieving expression on his face. “I was talking about the gun. You’re lying on it. So you should probably take your jacket off.”
“All right.” Though the pain was beginning to recede until it resembled a butcher knife in his brain, rather than a hatchet, he still cringed as he lifted his shoulders to remove the jacket.
Her comments about being “exposed” and “showing it” might have been made in perfect innocence. But he couldn’t help risking another quick lap check. All clear. Except for the continued discomfort of a pair of pants that, like the Grinch’s heart, suddenly felt two sizes too small.
She helped him slip out of the jacket, her body coming incredibly close to brushing against his. All his senses perked right up, conscious of the brush of her hair against his face, the sweet scent of her skin, the husky rhythm of each of her heavily indrawn breaths.
An inch. One inch closer and she’d be almost lying across his lap while she pushed the jacket off one shoulder and reached around to tug it out from under him. One inch and all that would keep them apart would be her silky white gown, his own dark clothes, and a headache the size of Milwaukee.
She pulled away, as if feeling the same flash of heated awareness. Tossing his jacket onto a chair, she turned a deeper shade of pink as he watched her, still trying to figure out just what had happened. Where it had happened. Why it had happened. And when it could happen again.
Unfortunately, without the leather coat as a barrier, he quickly became aware of a cold, wet sensation spreading on his back. “Am I lying in something? I’m getting wet. You sure you aunt didn’t bash me with a snow globe?”
“Sorry. You tipped over a bottle of water when you fell.”
“Great,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’m soaked.” Not giving it another thought, he carefully sat up and reached for the waistband of his black jeans. He tugged the bottom of his lightweight black sweater out and began pulling it up.
“What are you doing?”
Given the note of near panic in her voice as she watched him undress, he had the feeling he and the blonde one hadn’t progressed to the clothes-taking-off-stage. Too bad. He’d half hoped they’d been about to have wild sex on the kitchen table. That mighta made up for him getting knocked out by a penny-armed granny. It also might have given him something to look forward to when his brain stopped throbbing and started working again.
“I’m soaked.” His tone told her he was in no mood to argue over her delicate sensibilities. She watched, lips parted as she drew in deep breaths. She was all pink and flushed. So damned wide-eyed and innocent, her pulse beating wildly in her neck.
He suddenly had an almost uncontrollable impulse to growl, low in his throat, and gently nip at that neck. He wanted to taste her sweet skin, to feel her pulse beating against his tongue as he savored her. Later. Definitely later.
She didn’t help him tug the shirt off at first, maintaining a physical and mental distance. But when he tried to tug the sweater over his head, it scraped painfully against a boulder growing out of the back of his skull. He groaned.
“Let me help you,” she insisted, sounding disgruntled.
She didn’t act disgruntled, though. In fact, her hands almost lingered as she tugged the fabric free of his shoulders. He felt her fingers move lightly across his bare chest, and quivered a bit in instinctive reaction. Then she slid her hands under the mock-turtle neckline and eased it over his head.
“Better,” he murmured.
“Better,” she repeated, still kneeling close. So close he could see the flecks of gold in her beautiful amber irises, could see her gaze drop to his lips. To his shoulders. To his bare chest and stomach.
The throbbing in his groin became more urgent than the one in his head. Her stare held such heat. Such sensual want. Without thinking, he reached out and tangled his fingers in her hair, tugging her close. “I wanna kiss you so bad.”
“But your head...”
“It’ll damn well be worth the pain.”
