I Brake For Bad Boys (5 page)

She glared at him a moment more, then dropped into her car and slammed the door. Through the open window, she growled, “Maybe you can and maybe you can't. But make no mistake: you can not handle
me.
”

He had a nice home. His apartment was on the third floor with an impressive balcony that looked out over a wooded back lot. A creek ran the length of the apartment complex, softly churning, housing a duck or two and surrounded by a multitude of flowers and birds and butterflies.

“That's my favorite part,” he mentioned when she went straight across the living room, past the kitchen to look out the double glass doors on the far end of his dining nook. He detoured into the kitchen, opened a few cabinets, ran a little water, and seconds later Erica felt him come up close behind her. His breath touched her ear. “I always wanted to make love on the balcony, late at night so no one would see. You can hear the creek and see the stars.”

Peeved at the idea of him sexually entwined with another woman, she said, “Yeah? So have you?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I never had the right woman here before.”

Erica's brain froze.
Right woman?
Surely, he wasn't suggesting that
she
was the right woman? Never in her life had any man labeled her such.

But she had to admit, the idea of climbing atop that big muscular body with the fresh air surrounding them and the sounds of nature just beyond appealed to her too.

She shook herself. “Show me around your apartment.”

“All right.” His hand, like a burning brand, pressed at the small of her back. “Let's start in the kitchen.”

Erica's eyes glazed over at the expanse of tall cabinets, the enormous refrigerator, and high-tech stove. She wasn't much of a cook herself, but she appreciated how functional a kitchen like his would be.

He'd set out two thick pork chops, a fat zucchini, and a plump ripe tomato. Her stomach rumbled; she might not enjoy cooking, but she definitely enjoyed eating, especially after a long day at work.

“It's a hobby,” he explained. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Tea?” Erica found it somewhat amusing to watch a man as large as Ian move with such economic grace. He still wore his ragged jeans and sweaty work shirt, but he looked elegant in the kitchen, waiting on her.

He took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with ice from the automatic ice maker, and poured in a dark brewed tea. “Sugar or lemon?”

She shook her head and accepted the tea. He was full of surprises, she found. She couldn't help but comment on the neatness of his home. “You have a cleaning lady?”

“It's just me so I don't need one.” He handed her a napkin and resumed the tour. “There's only the living room and the little dining room here.”

Only,
didn't quite describe it. The room was large, with heavy masculine furniture and very little decoration other than a few framed prints on the wall and a scattering of family photos on a mantel over an electric fireplace. But still it looked very put together, and somehow homey and warm.

He flipped a switch and the fireplace lit up. “It doesn't give off heat,” he explained, then continued down the hall. “My bathroom.”

Erica peeked into the wholly masculine domain. Done all in cream with a glass tub enclosure rather than a curtain, it was spotless at best, near barren at worst. Other than a toothbrush in the holder and an electric razor plugged in, there were no personal items about.

It smelled of Ian, of his aftershave and soap, and his own unique, earthy scent. Her heart did a little flip as she breathed in and accepted the now familiar reaction in her body. She loved his smell, so masculine and raw and . . . Ian.

She was still a little goggled when he took her hand, otherwise she might have protested. Having her hand engulfed in his much larger one made her feel small and weak—and she hated that. She made a habit of not letting men feel superior in any way. But Ian tugged her only as far as the next door.

“My spare room. I use it as an office since it isn't really big enough for a bedroom.”

“You work at home?”

“No, but I prefer to keep things organized and this way they are. I grew up with my father spreading the bills across the dining room table.” He shrugged. “I didn't like that.”

Fascinated by this glimpse into Ian as a child, she turned to him. “I saw a bunch of pictures on your fireplace. Brothers and sisters?”

“Six. Three brothers, three sisters.” His grin went crooked, a little self-deprecating. “It's not easy to make ends meet with that many mouths to feed, so my dad was forever fretting over the bills. It's not easy to find your own space either. My brothers are slobs despite the way my mother kept at them. And my sisters have always collected knickknacks, so—”

“So you now relish your own place, which you can keep as you like it.” Erica hadn't expected such an outpouring of personal confidences. Most of the men she knew clammed up if you asked anything even remotely private.

Ian proved to be very different from any other man she knew.

“That's about it,” he said, and moved her farther down the hall. “This is my bedroom.” He pushed the door open and ushered her inside.

While Erica took in the king-size mattress, tall armoire, and long dresser, Ian crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.

“What about you?”

She stepped farther into the room to explore. There was another set of glass doors that also opened onto the balcony. “What about me?”

“Any brothers and sisters?”

She halted in the process of smoothing her fingers across the plush, dark blue coverlet neatly spread over his bed. Ian's hot gaze could be felt on her spine, in her heart. He was so intense sometimes that every fiber of her being was aware of his attention.

Fashioning a cavalier smile, she turned. “Naw, no siblings at all. Just me and my mother and whichever man she was with at the time.”

His brow rose. “Your mother's boyfriends lived with you?”

Erica rolled her shoulder in a negligent shrug. Damn it, she hadn't meant to say so much, but now that she had, she found talking about it more difficult than it should have been. “Mom often trusted the wrong guy, that's all.”

He hadn't moved. He still stood casually in the doorway, thick arms folded, ankles crossed. But suddenly he appeared more tense, more alert. “Wrong in what way?”

Feeling like a coward and blaming Ian for it, Erica strode to the glass doors. She tried to open them but they were locked and her fingers fumbled without success.

Big hands settled on her shoulders and a soft kiss touched her temple, setting her heart to a furious gallop.

They were in his bedroom, alone, and he'd just kissed her...

Without a word, Ian reached past her and opened the lock, then slid the door open. As soon as that was done, he again settled at her back, holding her loosely.

Erica didn't move. Part of her immobility was caused by sheer enjoyment; she liked being this close to Ian. Her body liked it too, warming and softening in all the right places just because he touched her, because his scent surrounded her.

But she held still too, because she felt foolish. So far, Ian had managed to drag every unwanted emotion from her with little effort. She wouldn't keep allowing that to happen. She
couldn't
allow that to happen.

She reclosed the door. “Wrong, in that she thought each of them was the love of her life.”

As if there'd been no awkward break in the conversation at all, Ian nodded. “Some people find that special person early in life, and others have to wait.”

She forced herself to move away from him. Keeping her gait casual, she retraced her steps to the kitchen. Ian followed. “What about you? Ever found that special someone?”

“No. You?”

She laughed. “I'm not at all convinced special people exist, at least not in a one-on-one-forever kind of way.”

“So cynical.” He pulled out a stool for her. “What about Becky and Asia? They're your friends and I know they're happily involved. You expect them to crash and burn?”

Why did he push her? She flipped her hair back and shrugged. “I don't know. Their relationships are too new to tell.”

“George and Cameron would be crushed.”

She grinned. “No, they'd just give me hell and harass me and tell me to mind my own business.”

“You like them?”

“Sure. They're good to Becky and Asia.” She felt compelled to add, “So far.”

Ian studied her a moment longer before shaking his head in an indulgent manner. “You want to keep me company while I cook?”

Erica had really expected him to jump her bones the minute they were alone in his apartment. She was mildly put out that he didn't, and yet fascinated with all he shared. Hoping he'd share even more, she opted to stay close rather than set the tone by leaving him alone.

“Sure.” She started to seat herself, but was taken by surprise when he relieved her of her tea, set it on the counter, and then hefted her up to the bar stool.

Standing far too close, his hands still at her waist, he gave her a small grin and asked, “Comfy?”

His strength constantly amazed her—and turned her on. He'd lifted her as easily as he might have lifted a child. She cleared her throat. “Yeah.”

He continued to look down at her, to hold her and smile. Then he leaned down for a kiss.

Erica knew she should tell him no, that she should deny him or at least reprimand him for not following the dictate of their agreement, which meant she was the boss and he was the slave. She should pull back right now. Or better yet, if she waited until he almost kissed her, then he'd really . . .
Wow.
He tasted so incredibly good.

Without conscious volition, her hands crept to his wide, hard shoulders. His cotton work shirt was soft, and she could feel the flex and play of muscle and bone beneath. Her fingers dug in with an effort to get him closer. She opened her mouth and felt the brief foray of his damp, velvet tongue, and . . .

“Damn.” He straightened over her. “I forgot, I need to shower.”

Erica blinked, trying to bring herself back around. She'd been so lost in that hot, devouring kiss. All she really wanted at the moment was more—of that kiss, of him, of how he made her feel, and his delicious, clean-sweat scent. She reached for him, but he shook his head.

“Sorry, honey. Shower first, then we can play all you want.” He turned to the stove—
turned his back on her
—and set a pot full of water on to boil.

Erica went rigid.

“I'm going to go ahead and get the food started, then jump in the shower. I promise I won't be more than five minutes. That is”—he glanced over his shoulder and caught her fuming—“unless you want me to shave?”

Erica eyed the beard shadowing on his jaw, which made him look like a dark rogue. “No.” Damn it, her voice sounded like a croak again. She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “You can shave later while I watch.”

Both his brows lifted. “A voyeur, huh?” He sounded vastly amused by that. “I'm game.”

“Of course you are,” she said through her teeth, “because I'm the boss, so whatever I say is okay with you.”

“Right.”

Within seconds he had the thick chops sizzling on the range-top griddle, set on low, and he started out of the room with the admonition, “Be good—at least until I get back.”

Annoyed more with herself than him, Erica snatched up her drink and went to the glass doors. At least this time she knew how to open them, so she sauntered outside, dropped into a padded chaise, and stretched out her legs.

The blazing sun had disappeared behind gray clouds without her realizing it, and the air smelled of an impending storm. She loved storms, found them sexy and energizing, and at the moment, they certainly matched her turbulent mood.

How could she teach Ian a lesson when all he had to do was look at her and she got tongue-tied?

The aroma of cooking pork drifted out to her, but she wasn't about to tend to dinner, too. That wasn't the deal, and she had to keep at least some part of the original bargain pure. She checked her wristwatch and saw it was six thirty-six. She'd give him the requisite five minutes he'd claimed, then she was leaving. And she'd have a legitimate excuse for walking out, too, given how he'd started things out.

A humid wind blew in, tangling her hair. Not that she cared. She turned her face up, closed her eyes, and tried to relax.

Not more than three minutes after that she heard Ian whistling in the kitchen. Ha. She wouldn't move. Let him come outside and find her. She waited, but all she got was the sounds of food being diced and dishes being rattled.

She stubbornly kept her eyes closed and maintained her feigned position of comfort. In truth, she felt as wired as a ticking bomb waiting to go off.

Then gentle fingers touched her head, smoothed her windblown hair behind her ears, and drifted down her neck. She was aware of Ian crouching beside her, fresh from his shower, big and powerful and imposing.

He leaned closer to her, brushing his mouth over her cheekbone, her ear, down her throat. “Tired?” he asked, in a voice low and rough and gentle.

Erica slanted her eyes open—and found herself face-to-naked-chest with him. Stunned, she quickly straightened and looked at the rest of his body, but he had on jeans. Just jeans. Butter soft, well worn jeans that weren't properly buttoned, likely due to his haste in getting back to the food. His bare feet were big and lean.

God, she was lusting over his feet.

She looked back at his body, at that strong abdomen, the impressive, muscular chest lightly covered in dark hair, and she wasn't sure if she should be relieved or disappointed that he'd grabbed the damn jeans.