Take a Chance on Me (118 page)

"Emma—"

"How? How the hell did you get to me without laying a finger on me?"

Thomas smiled and the dimples popped to life even as his right eye narrowed. She hated when all those things happened at once—it made him so adorable she couldn't concentrate.

"Indirect communication, Miss Marple."

"Oh." After a sigh, she went right back to being indignant. "And what was this all about?" She pointed to his mostly naked body. "Were you dreaming about me just now?"

"Wouldn't be the first time." Thomas straightened up and rubbed his hands through his hair and over his face, nearly slapping himself awake. He stared at her.

She stared back.

Neither moved.

"Um, you're the expert, Emma, but I think we're having one of those 'four F' moments here, wouldn't you agree?"

She laughed at that. Thomas was actually quite funny—for a compulsive liar. With a sigh, she sat farther back on her heels and took a leisurely look at the man stretched out before her. His eyes were sleepy and dangerous. His body was long and brawny and nothing but glowing muscle covered in downy blond curls.

The shorts were now tugged lower on his rippled abdomen, pulled by an erection so obvious that it should have been spotting a festive pink bow and a gift tag that read "For Emma."

She cleared her throat. "And which one of the F's are you leaning toward right now, do you suppose?"

"Mmmm." He draped a chiseled arm over the back of the couch and crooked a knee provocatively, shifting his weight. Emma checked out the Big One again and felt her mouth go dry.

"Well, you certainly don't frighten me." His voice was low and thoughtful. "And I don't particularly feel like fighting anymore. So I guess that leaves flight or—"

"Fucking me."

Silence.

Emma could not believe she'd said that! She clenched her eyelids shut in a reflex of utter mortification, tight enough, she prayed, to put an end to her very existence.

"Yep—that would be my first choice," he said in a hoarse whisper.

Did she dare look at him? With a wince, Emma opened her eyes. The muscles along Thomas's jaw were clenched tight and the tendons strained in his neck. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple sliding along the length of his throat. His right eye was now just a slit.

"In fact," he continued, "since it's going to be nothing but the truth from here on out, here's the truth, sweet-cheeks—I've wanted to fuck you since the instant you walked into the exam room and that shiny braid of yours flew over your shoulder. And I've felt like fucking you every damn time I've had the pleasure of being in your company since then—the emergency clinic, the diner, the diner parking lot, your basement, your porch, Slick's apartment, my car, the—"

"Fine. I get your—"

"And right now. Let's go."

"—point."

He was already on his feet and hovering over Emma, his hand outstretched to her, his groin level with her face. She thought she might cry again.

"Move it, Miss Marple. We're going upstairs."

"But what about our working relationship?" Oh—now was a swell time to get all prim and proper, but Emma figured she should at least pretend to be the voice of reason, even if that voice just came out in a pitiful squeak.

"It's Saturday. I try not to work on Saturdays if I can help it."

"That's not what—"

He grabbed her hand and pressed it to the front of his shorts. She knew this was going to be a huge mistake, but Thomas Tobin was proving hard to resist.

Real huge. Real hard.

Emma's lips went numb. All she could do was nod her head real slow because who was she kidding? This was where they'd been going since the moment they'd met, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

She was simply the product of thousands of years of human evolution—a process that had fine-tuned Homo sapiens into the most sexual primates on earth. And she was just a healthy female of breeding age, one who'd gone more than a year without sex. Which wasn't natural. Not natural at all.

He pulled her to her feet, and before she knew what was happening, Thomas put his shoulder to her belly, tipped her off the ground, and flung her over his shoulder.

The air whooshed from Emma's lungs as they headed for the stairs. Then Thomas slapped a big hand down on her ass like he owned it, and she gasped. His other steely arm clamped around the back of her knees.

How was she supposed to respond to this kind of manhandling? No one had ever picked her up like this—outside of that Conan the Barbarian fantasy, to which this bore a striking resemblance, she realized.

Emma felt helpless, breathless, and a tiny bit petrified. But all she could do was stare at the receding steps and the upside-down view of the bulging muscles along the back of Thomas's thighs and calves, thinking the whole time that she was surely giving the man a herniated disc.

"Thomas, put me down. I'm too heavy."

"You're not too heavy."

"I am. Put me down."

"I plan to—on my bed."

The last thing Emma saw before they turned the corner of the upstairs hallway was Hairy, sitting near the bottom of the steps, his head tipped to the side and his lips pulled back in what she once again swore was a smile.

Are those monkeys I see flying out of your butt, Big Alpha?

* * *

His hand was on her butt—her butt!—which she knew he wouldn't find very appealing once they got to the down and dirty. How had she let it get this far? Pretty soon he'd be seeing the whole enchilada, right there in broad daylight, and he was bound to lose his appetite for Mexican.

The derriere in question hit the mattress and Emma bounced a few times, long enough for her to watch Thomas straighten up, put a hand to the small of his back, and stretch.

"Told you I was too heavy."

His eyes swept down to where she sat on the corner of the bed, gripping the mattress like it would keep her from falling off the edge of the earth.

She wasn't too heavy—she was perfect—the juiciest, most delectable collection of womanly parts he'd ever had the pleasure to put his hands on. He wanted to eat her alive. He wanted to make love to her in ways never before attempted in the history of their species.

Emma felt his stare work its way all along her body, from her feet on up. She started to squirm when his eyes returned to her hips and thighs. His expression turned serious, angry even. Emma knew the end was near. She wished he'd just say it!

"Let's get naked," he said.

Her pulse shot through the roof. Why was he doing this to her? He'd just glared at her in disapproval. He hadn't said anything about the blue dress, so he couldn't feel real affection for her. Could he feel sorry for her, was that what this was? A charity bopping?

Emma sucked in air at the sight of Thomas peeling off his shorts. He was nude underneath—completely, gloriously, mouth-droppingly nude.

And if this was the man's charity hard-on, she'd hate to see him in the throes of real lust.

Then, as if magically summoned, all the lovely ladies appeared in Emma's imagination, shoulder to shoulder like a police lineup—every woman Thomas Tobin had ever taken to bed. There they were, glamorous and disgustingly thin, a parade of lingerie models, flight attendants, Entertainment Tonight correspondents, and each had perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect makeup, and perfect little tushies.

She suddenly felt sick with dread.

"Emma?"

She realized she hadn't moved, hadn't even started to remove a single item of clothing. She simply stared at the deluxe model of manhood in front of her, jutting hard, thick, and already decorated with a single, crystalline drop of fluid.

She wanted to decorate him with her lips, her tongue. She wanted to embrace him, pull him inside her body, ride him, let him split her in half.

Drunk with lust—drowning in it—Emma began to unbutton her jeans, still staring, telling herself if she didn't do this, take advantage of this limited-time offer, she'd kick her own ass from here to eternity.

Her own big ass.

It hit Thomas like a metric ton of rock.

She was staring at him, grim-faced and silent.

She could tell!

He hadn't dared get this close to anyone since Nina. On the night he was injured, she'd touched him and told him he seemed swollen. Then, in a voice full of more accusation than concern, she'd told him that something was definitely wrong with him.

Since then, Rollo had assured him that his appearance was normal, but Emma was a scientist—a doctor, for God's sake! A person who knew how to neuter dogs! And she was staring at his package like someone who'd just taken a bite of Mrs. Q's tuna casserole.

His hand froze inside the bedside table drawer.

He must be crazy.

Why had he just dragged this woman up the stairs to his bedroom? He had absolutely no business bringing a woman into his life—his home, his heart—especially this extremely beautiful, kind, good woman.

But it was too late—because she'd taken off her clothes. His throat tightened. His cock jumped. She was nothing but soft, supple woman flesh—rich burgundy nipples that puckered into long peaks, creamy and succulent thighs and hips—and dear God, she deserved so much more than a pessimist with a bum nut and not enough sperm for a pickup basketball game.

Emma Jenkins deserved a whole man. A real man and a real relationship. A few kids someday. She was the world's most natural mother, and all those kids were going to be lucky little bastards.

But it was too late to stop, and with robotlike movements, he tore open the little foil packet that was all for show, slid on the condom and walked toward the bed. She was naked, staring up at him with huge blue eyes filled with … what? Disgust? Pity?

He came closer, put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her on her hack. He let his eyes sweep down her body—ripe and willing and opening beneath him—and he knew he couldn't go through with it.

He couldn't do this to her—he would not lie to her or mess with her head-ever again.

And if that was pity he'd just seen in her eyes, he sure as hell didn't want it!

Thomas heard Emma sniffle, felt her sob, and he pushed himself off the bed and away from her, his gut in turmoil, his heart ripped to shreds.

"Goddammit," he muttered, turning his back to her, lost to her, to reason, aware of nothing but how defective he was, how damaged and unworthy.

He nearly laughed aloud. The most alluring woman he'd ever laid eyes on was naked on his bed, crying.

What a total disaster—a total disaster when all he wanted was total oblivion, total immersion in her, a moment to wallow in the comfort and female softness of her and lose himself in her love.

All he wanted was her love.

It took every bit of strength Emma had to pull herself up to a sitting position. She folded her arms across her chest as if it would stop the shaking, staunch the bleeding.

That sure hadn't taken long. All she had to do was strip and all the fire and magic from downstairs was doused-gone—and nothing was left but a man with issues and a woman looking at rejection. Again.

Rejection.

Issues.

Baggage.

Emma wanted to scream!

Why did sex and love have to be so unbelievably complicated?

Thomas started to move. She watched him stalk toward the bathroom, providing her with a nice view of the high, muscular, man-ass that under any other circumstance would have made her punch-drunk with the pure wonder of it. She saw how the muscles rippled in his back as he reached in front of him to rip off the condom. She heard the soft ping as latex hit the inside of the wastebasket.

Right then would have been a good time to put her clothes on, but Thomas chose that moment to return to the bedroom, and Emma froze. He was still ferociously aroused, but his eyes were cold, as cold as she'd ever seen them, and his wide, sensual mouth was pulled in a thin line of despair.

"I have something to tell you," he said.

Thomas had reached a decision in the bathroom. The way he figured, he could make some bogus excuse and ask her to leave and lose her forever, which would probably be to her benefit, or he could tell her the truth—all of it—and hope beyond hope that she'd still want him.

What was the worst that could happen? He'd lose what he would have lost anyway, but at least he would have tried. At least he would have been a man about it.

"You deserve the truth," he said.

Emma gathered in her legs and wrapped her arms around her shins, compressing herself into a ball to stop the trembling. She didn't want him to see her shaking—from shame, from need. She didn't want him to see her naked.

"Spare me, Thomas." She looked at the wall. "I know perfectly well what you're going to say, and I can tell you from experience that I don't want to hear it." She took a steadying breath. "Give me a second and I'll get out of here, all right?"

She knew what? he wondered. That he was infertile? That he was dying from wanting her so much? That she looked amazing sitting like that, the lips of her little swollen sex peeking out from behind those tapered ankles?

Did she know he wanted to get down on his knees and worship her with his tongue? Did she know he wanted to pull those soft thighs of hers wide open and push his cock up inside her, disappear in her, die in the heat and relief and bliss of her? Did she know he wanted to give her everything, take away all the bad stuff that had ever happened to her and give her nothing but pleasure in return? Did she know all this?

"What do you think you know, Emma?"

She looked up at him, and the shock slammed through her entire body. His cold expression had been replaced by something hungry and desolate. And his erection! It was huge—more impressive than only a moment ago—and she simply didn't understand! If he didn't find her attractive, then why was he so …