Out of Control (5 page)

“You forgot about sex,” she said without thinking.

His eyes flicked over her body. “No, I didn't.”

The speculative look in his eyes sent a shiver down her spine. As if lying to him wasn't bad enough. Now she was flirting with him. Whoa, Nelly. Her inner devil slut was getting the upper hand, big-time.

She broke eye contact with great effort, and rubbed the back of her stiff neck, groping for a swift change of subject. “Looking over my shoulder all the time is giving me knots in my neck,” she murmured.

“I could give you a back rub,” he offered.

She laughed right in his face. “Hah! I just bet you could.”

“I wouldn't grope you. Seriously. I'm very good at it.”

She marveled at how the urban blight light accentuated all the stark planes and angles of his face, casting every stunning detail in sharp relief. It figured. Only Davy McCloud could possibly look good in that light. “An offer of a massage is never innocent,” she told him.

He shook his head. “Don't judge me based on your past experience. I'm not average. I mean what I say, and I keep my word.”

She blinked. “Oh. Gosh. Excuse me for not recognizing your lordly qualities and your incredible moral superiority.”

He inclined his head in a gracious nod. “You're excused.”

She simply could not tell if he was joking or not. The guy was unreal. He kept a completely straight face. God, she was sick of playing the cast-iron bitch, never trusting anybody. Hell with it. Being touched by Davy McCloud would be super deluxe. She was going for it.

“Oh, whatever,” she said. “But if your hands stray anyplace south of my thoracic vertebrae, I'll have Mikey bite you in the butt.”

The threat didn't have much oomph, being as how Mikey was sprawled on his back, silently pleading for his belly to be rubbed.

McCloud leaned down and stroked him, his hand tracing one of the shaved patches. “What happened to him?”

“He got mouthy in Washington Park with a big, mean stray dog,” she told him. “He never learns.”

McCloud nodded, and got to his feet. He slid his hand beneath her hair and curved it around the back of her neck. Just that gentle touch alone made a delicious sensation ripple across her skin, all the relaxing comfort of heat, all the stimulating refreshment of coolness.

“Do you want to lie down?” he asked.

She slanted him an eloquent glance. “Yeah, right, and take off my shirt, too? Get real.” She fished in her pocket for a hair tie, and wound her hair into a lopsided ponytail. “There. Go for it. Dig deep. I'm tough.”

He was fabulous. Neither a timid, irritating massage that just tickled the surface of knotted muscles nor yet a macho, insensitive attack upon them. His touch was slow, sure, sensual. His hands commanded her muscles to release tension, and they obeyed him, in level after level of helpless yielding and softening. Melting.

She wished that she'd lain down after all. Sure, it would have been stupid, but letting him into her house had been stupid, eating his food had been stupid. Letting him touch her body was downright idiotic. What was one more level of stupidity in the grand scheme of things?

Time slowed, stretched, and collapsed slowly back in on itself in great, pulsing waves. She forced her eyes open when she realized that his hands were cupping the curve of her waist. “You're south of my thoracic vertebrae, buddy, and heading straight into no-man's-land.”

His hands lifted away from her body. “Sorry.”

She missed the warm contact instantly. “Don't sweat it. I know how it is,” she mumbled. “One vertebrae just leads to another, and hey presto, before you know it you're giving me a foot rub.”

He started in on her shoulders again, with a muffled crack of laughter. “I think I'd get distracted along the way,” he said.

She had to struggle not to moan. It had been so long since she'd been touched at all, let alone with any real tenderness or skill.

Maybe she never had been. She'd never melted like this for anybody. Dangerous thought. Delete, delete. “My head's going to float right up off my neck,” she said. “I didn't know my neck was that tense.”

“After teaching five classes, it would be strange if it weren't.” His fingers caressed her neck. Lovely heat lanced down into her chest, her belly, her thighs. “I see now why you're in such great shape.”

“Look who's talking,” she murmured. “If you're ever short on cash, you could set up a booth and charge the ladies to massage your bod.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice was wary.

“Sure. Say, fifteen bucks for a two minute fondle. Strictly PG-13, above the waist, of course. I'll sell the tickets, if you give me a cut.”

His hands stopped moving. She babbled on, dazed and thoughtless. “The gay guys would go for it, too. We'd rake in the dough.”

“I'd let you do it for free,” he said.

His voice was devoid of irony. Her eyes popped open in alarm.

She looked back over her shoulder. The hot glow in his eyes brought her feminine instincts to high alert. She pulled away.

She and her big dumb mouth. Sexy banter with a guy she barely knew, but no nerve to back it up. Bad girl. Very immature.

“Um, sorry,” she said warily. “That was hot peppers and beer talking. I actually didn't mean to flirt.”

He gripped the edge of his sweatshirt and peeled it over his head.

“Holy cow.” Margot's voice shook. “What the hell are you doing?”

He let the sweatshirt drop to the floor. “How can you set a price for a two minute fondle if you don't do any product testing?”

She was at a loss for a snappy comeback. “I was joking! Are you familiar with that concept? Do you take everything dead seriously?”

“I take things however I feel like taking them.”

She examined each and every possible interpretation of his words as she stared at his body. Usually blond guys were white and pasty, with bluish undertones like skim milk. McCloud's body was gold-tinted.

It glowed with power, wildly out of place in her dingy kitchen. His physique had the nervy, sculpted look of an Olympic gymnast. Every muscle knew its job, and did it superbly. Nothing missing. Nothing superfluous. Total freaking perfection.

The intensity of his eyes held her motionless. He put his arms behind his back. “I won't touch you. No groping. Word of honor.”

His words made her abruptly conscious of her female body. How naked and soft and vulnerable she was under her scruffy loungewear.

She stared down at what the damp chill in her apartment did to his dark nipples. He had goose bumps. That was a good sign. It proved he was human, at least. He looked so warm and supple and strong.

Oh, Lord. She could just eat him up with a spoon.

She took a step back, and wobbled as her hip bumped the table.

“OK,” she said. “Enough funny stuff. Showing off will get you nowhere. Put your damn shirt back on before I hyperventilate.”

A ghost of a smile touched his stern mouth. “Touch me.”

The command in his deep voice resonated through her body. Her hand lifted, drifting in the air between them. He moved closer without seeming to move at all, and her hand was splayed against his hot chest.

Her hand moved of its own accord, fingertips brushing over lean contours, ridges of bone, soft skin, the vibrant power of the muscle beneath it. His tight nipple tickled her palm. Her hand pressed against his solar plexus, felt his heart throb. She glanced at his crotch. His hard-on pressed against his jeans. His face was flushed and taut, eyes hazy. The thick muscles of his shoulders were rigid with strain.

“No hands, huh?” Her voice was wondering. “You meant that?”

“Anytime you want that to change, you let me know.”

His breath was quick and heavy. His heart thudded against her hand. He was more power than she knew how to handle, like being perched on a racehorse spoiling for a run. Behind the wheel of a Ferrari, charged up and ready to let 'er rip. Vibrating with raw energy.

Her hand shook where it touched his hot skin. He was as exotic and alien as an undiscovered country. She was dazed. Paralyzed with shyness. Something cynical snickered way in the back of her mind.
Poor Margot, forced to pet a hunk's gorgeous pecs, yeah, break out the violins.

Her mouth was inches from that alluring hollow in his neck. She could just lean forward and…taste him. And for as long as it lasted, she could forget the whole scary, sordid mess of her life. She would think of nothing but him. Lose herself in him. God. She ached for it.

“I don't know you,” she whispered. “Not the first thing about you.”

“No,” he replied. “You don't.”

And he left it at that. No attempt to wheedle or cajole. No bullshit.

His blunt honesty was seductive. She wanted to grab him, twine herself around him and just soak him up. All that heat, all that power.

And that would be it. She would get nailed tonight, by a great big gorgeous guy about whom she knew absolutely nothing except that he rarely smiled. Which wasn't much of a recommendation.

Mikey liked him,
her inner devil slut whispered.

Yeah, like that counted worth beans. Mikey would fawn over any clown who fed him barbecued pork, excluding her own wretched self. McCloud would think she was a tramp for putting out so fast, and then she would hate herself for being used, blah blah blah. She couldn't do this to herself. No way. She was hanging on by a thread as it was.

She lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed her forefinger against his soft, warm lips. “We've got to stop.”

He rubbed his cheek against her hand. His glinting blond beard stubble rasped her skin. The sensual, animal gesture made her heart turn over with hungry longing. “How come?” he asked.

She forced herself to pull her hand away. “Because I say so.”

She nudged the sleeping Mikey off his sweatshirt with her toe, plucked it off the floor and held it out to him, dog hairs and all. “Put this back on. Right now. No back talk.”

He sighed, and pulled it over his head. She manufactured a glare and had it fixed in place by the time his head emerged. “I appreciate the striptease, and it's sweet of you to entertain me, but it's time for me and Mikey to start winding down. How much do I owe you for dinner?”

His face tightened. “Get real.”

Margot yanked open the freezer and pulled out her dwindling stash of grocery money out from under the ice cube tray. “I figured you'd give me a hard time about that.” She rummaged through her stash of takeout menus until she found Luisa's. “Let's see…tacos, enchiladas, rellenos, tamales, mole and shrimp…that's about fifty bucks, plus eight or so for the beer, so let's call it twenty-nine a head—”

“I'm not taking your money.”

“I don't like guys to pay for my stuff.” She threw the words at him.

“Too fucking bad.”

She flinched. “Hey. Watch it. No nasty potty mouth in my space.”

His eyebrow quirked. “I've heard you swear.”

“Yeah, maybe, but you haven't heard me use the f-word. I never do that. Do I, Mikey? You ever hear me say the f-word?” Mikey wagged in cheerful corroboration as Margot discreetly counted her stash. Twenty-three bucks. Yikes. She held it out to him with stoic calm. “I prefer not to be obligated to a strange man,” she said.

“Put it away,” he warned. “Before you piss me off.”

She hid her relief as she stuck the money back under the ice cube tray. She turned back to him, twisting her hands together. “Um, well…thanks very much for dinner, then. It was scrumptious.”

“You're welcome.”

She waited for something like
well, it's late, so I guess I'll be hitting the road,
but he just stood there until she started to wonder what was so damned interesting about her face. It had looked normal enough the last time she'd checked. “Good night,” she hinted.

“Why are you freezing me out?” He sounded genuinely curious.

She plastered the baleful glare back on. It took more effort this time. “You know, there was a reason why I said no when you invited me to dinner back at your gym,” she said. “It's the same reason I don't let guys pay for anything, not my meals, not my drinks. Because they start to act like you're acting right now, see? Like I owe them something.”

He shook his head. “I never meant to—”

“So get a clue. Good night. Thanks for dinner.”

“But I know you're attracted to me,” he said stubbornly.

“So? What if I am?” she yelled. “I'm swamped! I've got money problems, I've got pet problems, I've got Snakey the Sicko Maniac sending me presents from the Crypt. I don't need man trouble, too!”

“I'm not—”

“I don't have the time or energy for a boyfriend! I can't even handle my relationship with my dog right now!”