Pel and the predators, p.8
Branded by Firelight, page 8
“If you say so, honey.” Tessa patted her arm and began to fret like the worried mother of three teenage daughters Claire remembered so well. “Make sure you wear a warm coat and take a pair of boots with you. The weather’s going to turn to rain. If the roads get slippery, you can bring Ben back here for the night. The beds are made up in the boys’ old room. And call me if you’re going to be late.”
Claire donned the red coat she’d worn earlier and grabbed boots from the mat by the kitchen door and she stashed them in the trunk of her car.
She arrived at the ranch a few minutes before seven. She’d called ahead, and Ben was waiting for her beneath one of the security lights, leaning against the white pole with his hands in his pockets. The beam of her headlights caught every detail. The night of the wedding, she’d been too preoccupied to show more than a passing appreciation for the way he cleaned up. She sat up straighter and paid more attention now.
He wore a black Stetson without any pretension, the way only a real cowboy could. A white cotton shirt had been paired with a narrow black tie and designer jeans, not the usual Wranglers that were standard cowboy attire. Instead of boots he wore soft-soled, leather lace-up flats. A gray, epaulet jacket with a fleece-lined, stand collar matched his shoes.
Long legs and broad shoulders had her catching her breath. But the wide, disarming smile flashing twin dimples, and blue eyes under cocked brows, which gave him an air of perpetual good humor, were the features she liked the best. It was impossible not to feel good around him. He oozed laidback congeniality.
She already knew he was patient. When he was with a woman, he’d take his time. Again, she felt the imaginary graze of rough fingers over her skin steal her breath.
A rush of cold air accompanied him as he got in the car. His knees bumped the dash even though the passenger seat was pushed back as far as it would go. He shifted sideways, adorning the back of her seat with one arm. “You bought this car for its looks, didn’t you?”
“I bought it because I like the way it handles.” And because Damon, a mechanic, had approved of her choice.
Ben tipped his hat back with his thumb. “You’re into speed?”
She faked pulling on a pair of driving gloves, then flexed her fingers as if anticipating a race. “You got a problem with that?”
“Not at all. Normally I’d say we should open her up and see what she can do, but after dark might not be the best time for stunting.”
He was teasing. This wasn’t the kind of sports car that got challenged at stoplights. It was meant for suburban streets. She’d have to dig out the owner’s manual to find how much horsepower was under the hood if he asked, because she had no idea.
It felt good, however, to be able to afford a car that handled well for a change. It had been her treat to herself when she’d signed her third major contract.
His tone turned pretend-thoughtful. “Although I suppose it would depend on the stunt. How far do these seats fold back? Never mind. We can figure that out after dinner.”
It felt even better to be with a man who was completely upfront about his intentions. She entered into the spirit of the game. “You’re taking me to a hotel for dinner, but checking out how much room my car has for later? You’re a terrible date.”
“The last time I checked, the Montreau doesn’t rent rooms by the hour.”
His attention was focused on her in much the same way a cat studied its prey. He was sounding her out, trying to decide whether she’d dodge left if he darted right.
She went straight down the middle. “If you think an hour would be long enough, then you’ve been dating the wrong kind of women.”
They were coming up on town limits. The exit for Sweetheart appeared straight ahead. The mood in the car shifted, ever so slightly.
This time, he didn’t come back with something clever or smart. “Is this a date? Or is it better if we keep things friendly between us?” he asked.
Her heart began to pound like a jackhammer on crack. “Why can’t it be both?”
He was blunt, putting it right out there, letting her know playtime was over. “Because, when two people aren’t on the same page about a relationship, sex can ruin things. There’s no turning back.”
The quiet purr of the engine was all that covered the loud thud of her heart. “It won’t ruin anything if we don’t let it.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” He ran a light finger along the curve of her cheek, down the long line of her throat, and slowed to a stop a hairsbreadth above the swell of her breasts. The gentle touch, so at odds with the abrasive texture behind it, sent her senses careening as he appeared to debate whether or not to continue the journey. Instead, he propped his arm on the back of her seat and toyed with a lock of her hair as if fascinated by it. “Do you know the difference between a hookup and friends-with-benefits?”
“Of course.” The already small space in the car shrank even more. A hookup offered a degree of anonymity and little or no emotional connection.
“Then you know that sex between friends can turn messy and complicated.”
“Not nearly as messy as a wife and three kids,” she replied. She couldn’t recall ever having held a conversation like this one with a man before. Maybe she should have. “But if it makes you feel more comfortable, we can call it a hookup.”
“It’s too late for that.”
She didn’t know what he wanted from her. She was lost. “What do you normally do?”
“See, this is where my concern over friendship comes into play. I’d take a girl out to dinner. Afterward, we’d likely end up in bed—maybe back at her place, or maybe we’d make it as far as my truck and then call it a night. I wouldn’t be sleeping over. Neither would she. We don’t dance at her sister’s wedding and end up on YouTube. There’s never any riding lessons, or hikes, or watching movies together. I sure as hell wouldn’t find myself at the library, watching her work.”
“You think we’ve come at this backward.” If so, she could see how he might have arrived at that conclusion.
“More accurately, we’ve come at this too late,” he corrected her. “The night of the wedding would have been the right time for a hookup. We could have passed it off the way Hannah and Dallie did—that we’d had too much to drink. But friends-with-benefits is awkward now that we really are friends, so we missed that chance, too.”
He’d known about Hannah and Dallas. She wondered if anyone else was aware. Poor Hannah. Claire didn’t like her sister’s ex-boyfriend and never had, so she couldn’t care less if he found out—served the cheating bastard right—but guilt over it would be eating Hannah up. She’d been with him too long.
Claire did have to agree with Ben about any chance of a hookup. That ship had sailed. She disagreed about them being friends-with-benefits, however. If she stayed in Sweetheart, yes, it might make things awkward between them later on, because she’d overshared. Now that her mom was okay though, all she had to do was throw a dart at a map and she’d be leaving.
And while she liked Ben, and suspected the feeling was mutual, he needn’t worry about her getting too attached. He wore his reputation the same way he did his Stetson. She’d been loved and left once, and once was enough.
More importantly though, a serious relationship with any man would mean she’d have to tell him about Tabitha, and explain why she’d given her up, and she couldn’t do it. Maybe someday, but not yet. That pain was still too close to her heart.
“So what will it be?” Ben asked.
He’d planned to seduce her.
Right up until she’d taken his hand in his truck after the scene in the library parking lot, and he’d seen awareness of him dawn in her eyes—as if she’d never noticed him until that very moment.
He’d gotten that look from women before and it was his signal to run. With Claire, he’d received the signal too late. His fine-tuned awareness of her was where the real danger lay. All his justifications for pursuing her—hair of the dog, getting back in the saddle—it was all bullshit. They’d crossed a line. His gut instincts assured him there’d be no keeping things light. He didn’t want a hookup, or friends-with-benefits. He wanted her.
And she wasn’t ready to make any long-term commitments.
He thought he might be. It was why he’d launched into that whole I’d take a girl out to dinner speech. Because what he’d told her was true, and if she couldn’t handle his past, then she might as well turn the car around now. His conscience might be clear on the women he’d known before her, but it was what he did now, and moving forward from here, that he had to worry about, and he had to proceed with caution. He still didn’t know what had broken her. It wasn’t the asshat with a wife and three kids. Claire was better than that and she wasn’t mourning his loss.
What, then, was her problem?
“Why don’t we have dinner and see how it goes?” she suggested.
A confident driver, she navigated the streets of Sweetheart with ease. She found a spot in front of the Montreau and parallel-parked with efficiency. The engine ticked when she shut off the ignition. She removed her high-heeled foot from the brake. A streetlight flooded the interior of the car with pale light.
She was so fucking beautiful, he had no words. Warm brown hair with blond highlights. Cool, straightforward blue eyes and high cheekbones. Full, pink-tinted lips below a small, perfectly-formed nose. If nothing else, he planned to kiss her properly before the evening was over.
Maybe before it even began.
She reached for her purse, which was lodged between them. Her knuckles skimmed his thigh. She didn’t appear to notice the light touch, but he did.
He cupped her face between his palms and kissed her, a soft slide of his mouth over hers before he teased his tongue between her lips.
She tasted like everything he loved in a woman. Sexy and sweet and incredibly hot. The best part of all was the way she kissed him back—the soft, eager little breaths and the warmth of her small fists as she burrowed them under the flaps of his jacket. The car, the night, and the whole world spun away, and all he could think of was her.
He raised his head, wishing like hell they were somewhere less public. Her eyes, slightly bemused, locked on his. She wiped her thumb across his lower lip to remove any traces of pink. Then she got out her lipstick, and calmly, as if he hadn’t just had his tongue in her mouth, tilted the review mirror so she could repair the damage he’d done.
Her pretense of composure didn’t fool him. He’d never met a woman yet who couldn’t touch up her lipstick with her eyes closed if she were in a hurry. He watched, entertained by her use of a feminine ploy he’d seen many times, meant either to attract his attention or to buy a few seconds to recover from it. The slight shake of her hand and her absolute concentration tipped him off as to which one it was.
He made himself a promise. The next time he kissed Claire she wouldn’t need to reapply her lipstick for hours.
As they walked from the sidewalk, up the front steps, and into the hotel reception area, he kept his hand on the small of her back. He’d wanted to bring her here because the Montreau had recently finished renovations and boasted the nicest restaurant in town. The hotel had also sponsored the annual cherry festival dance for the past several years running.
The floor of the main lobby was a warm blond, antique hardwood that gleamed in the glow from the coffered ceiling’s many crystal chandeliers. A hand-carved bar, shipped in from across the country when the hotel was originally built, now occupied an alcove at one end of the enormous room. Their dinner reservation was for nine o’clock. They were going to relax over drinks here first.
He checked their coats, and after a brief internal struggle alleviated only after he handed over a hefty tip, also his hat. Then, he ushered Claire toward the bar. She wore a simple black dress with plain gold jewelry, nothing ostentatious, and yet she looked as if she’d been born and raised in the elegant surroundings. Heads turned in her direction as they passed.
“This isn’t at all how I remember the hotel,” Claire said, once they were seated. They’d been given armchairs close to a set of patio doors overlooking a rose garden gone dormant for the approaching winter. The trellises were swathed in bare brambles. She crossed her slim, sheer-stockinged legs. “We can go somewhere else after dinner.” A smile lifted her lips—one that scrambled his brain. “Is there still a motel on the highway toward Cherry Lake?”
His brain cells regrouped. She wasn’t serious about getting a room, but he really disliked the insinuation that he couldn’t afford one at the Montreau, when in reality he had plenty of money to spare. He’d been saving and investing for years. Early on, he and Patterson had done well at rodeos with their team roping. When James Campbell had asked them to cut back and focus more attention on the ranch, he’d made it worth their while. James understood it was a lucrative income stream they’d be giving up. Ben didn’t train horses for free either. His services were in demand and he was selective. He was no millionaire, but he did okay.
He was the one who’d brought up the potential of the back seat of her car though, and told her he’d had hookups with girls in his truck, so he wasn’t exactly presenting himself as a class act. Just the opposite. He’d wanted to be brutally honest so she’d know what she was getting into, but he’d taken honesty too far. Some things simply weren’t discussed with a lady, and Claire was definitely that.
“I prefer the Montreau. But if you’re worried about being seen with me, a motel would be more anonymous,” he added, because he couldn’t seem to help jerking her rural-roots chain as a reminder of where she came from.
She met his eyes and heat licked his groin. “I don’t give a damn who sees us together. You asked what our relationship will be. I’d like to make a suggestion.” She flicked a finger between them. “How about if we go with ‘friends-with-benefits-for-right-now?’”
Meaning she foresaw an end.
Mentally, he drummed his fingers. Well, what else would she expect? He’d earned his reputation. Even reveled in it. And until now, he’d had zero regrets.
Because no. He did not want “friends-with-benefits-for-right-now.” Claire was a complex puzzle to him, with multiple pieces that didn’t quite fit, but he was beginning to figure her out. She was upfront—as direct as all get-out—but, thanks to the asshat who’d been anything but, she required a slow touch in certain areas.
Fortunately, one of those was an area in which he excelled.
“In that case, my friend, I have a suggestion, too.” He gave her a slow, heated smile that promised a long night of the same. “How do you feel about ordering room service for dinner?”
Chapter Eight
He booked a room, got the key from a teenager with a smirk on his face over the lack of luggage, and collected his hat and their coats from the girl at the coat check.
Claire met him at the elevator, exuding calm as if she did this every day, whereas he—who’d checked into hotels with women more than once—was a tangle of nerves.
Claire was different. The dress clinging to her was amazing—both modest and daring—much the way she was. She hadn’t worn a bra under it either. He’d noticed that the instant she’d removed her coat. The front of the dress dipped too deeply. He wondered what else she might or might not be wearing underneath it. And as for those sleeves with the cutouts that bared her shoulders...
Yes.
But it was best if he didn’t let his brain zero in on the long, stocking-clad legs and high heels until they got to their room. He had a thing for long legs as well as plans for those heels.
Another couple joined them in the elevator, meaning conversation was restricted to comments about the weather and what a pretty place Sweetheart was. Ben and Claire reached their floor first. Claire gave the man and woman a serene, parting smile and wished them a lovely stay in town.
The length of lush carpet between the elevator and their room stretched for miles, a true test of his patience. An eon later, Ben swiped the key and opened the door. He held it for Claire so she could enter first. The curtains at the floor-to-ceiling window that encompassed the far wall were open so there was no need to turn on a light. The bathroom was to the left. Beyond it was the king-sized bed he’d requested. In front of the window were a round table and two wingback chairs. A long, low dresser with a flat screen TV sat to the right.
When the door closed behind them she dropped her purse on the floor, turned to him, and slid her arms around his neck. She was warm, she was soft, and she smelled like a vanilla-wrapped promise.
“Room service can wait,” she said. Her voice scratched with need. “I want you to make love to me. Right now.”
She was far too much of a lady to come right out and say fuck me, but he got what she meant thanks to the urgency leaping between them that scorched over his skin. It wasn’t going to happen that way between them though, even if he was hard and ready. First times could be fast and amazing or slow and intense. If he’d wanted to give a woman a fast fuck, he’d go to a bar. He wanted the slow intensity for Claire. To give her the full experience. He wanted her completely satisfied and coming back to him for more, because once with her wasn’t going to be enough. He knew that already, and he didn’t even have her undressed.
He let go of their coats to tumble around their feet as he kissed her, freeing his hands to roam over the back of her dress while he licked the inside of her lower lip. Then, with a gentle nip, he caught her tongue between his teeth and drew it into his mouth, where he teased it with his, tasting the sweetness of her until he couldn’t hold a coherent thought and neither one of them could catch their breath.
He shucked out of his suit jacket and let it join the rest of their scattered belongings. Then he took Claire by the hand and spun her in a half circle, as if twirling her on the dance floor. When she had her back to him, he performed a slow slide of her zipper to reveal an expanse of smooth skin and very feminine, toned muscle. His knuckle tracked the length of her spine. He kissed the nape of her neck and she shivered on a sharp inhalation that shot straight to his throbbing ’nads.
