He was talking about sex again, clearly, and her ni**les knew it. Damn it, how did he manage to do that so easily? She moistened her lips and tried not to pant in anticipation. They needed to get married soon because the seven-day grace period was going to be hell on her. So the sooner they got to it, the sooner she could be feeling his touch everywhere.
Which was the most ass-backwards logic she’d ever used in her entire life, but there it was.
“If you don’t mind my saying, I think y’all are f**ked up,” the bartender said. “Relationships don’t work when you’re playing games.” Then he promptly walked away, clearly wanting out of their conversation.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Rhett told her, nudging her knee with his. “I’ve always enjoyed Follow the Leader. That usually works for me. If I’m the leader.”
“You’re a very dirty boy, Rhett Ford. But didn’t your mother teach you that you can’t always get what you want? I think I’m the leader in this case.” They were playing games, definitely. But what difference did it make? It wasn’t going to be a real marriage, and they might as well enjoy the sexual tension strung out between them.
She was going to save the track and get some action.
After seven days.
If they were really doing this. Were they really doing this?
Her cheeks felt hot at the very idea.
“I don’t think you’re in any position to make threats or demands,” he told her. “You are, in essence, the damsel in distress, and I’m rescuing you. You can’t be nagging me about my dragon-slaying techniques.”
That doused her libido quite effectively. “You’re no hero. You’re a hired mercenary, remember? I’m not in your debt, emotional or otherwise, when I’m paying you a hundred grand.”
His hand fell off her leg, and he sat back so quickly the air around her actually cooled. Despite her annoyance, she found herself regretting his retreat. Which meant it really was a good thing he had distanced himself. She couldn’t afford to want anything other than to save the track from being sold, and she needed to remember that.
“Let’s get one thing straight, or I’m not doing this,” he said, words slow and determined. “When we’re in public, I play the role of your legitimate husband, and yes, then I’m your mercenary. Your hired hand. But when we’re alone in your place, what happens between us has nothing to do with money and nothing to do with any of the legalities or any contract I signed. It’s strictly about what you and I both want. If you can’t keep the money out of the bedroom, then there’s no deal.”
Shawn sat stunned by his vehemence. She hadn’t meant that she would be tossing the payoff in his face every time he hit on her. In fact, that was the opposite of what she wanted. It would be profoundly awkward to be thinking about how much money she was paying him while he was between her thighs.
“I don’t want that either,” she assured him. “I agree entirely that if anything happens between us, we keep it totally separate from our business arrangement.” If she stopped to think about it, she would have to admit that doing that would be damn near impossible, but she just refused to think about it. There was too much at stake to worry too much about the finer points.
He gave a slow smile that made her wish his hand were still between her thighs. “Then we have a deal. Get over here and seal it with a kiss.”
Shawn gave a nervous laugh. Because she was going to do this. And because she wanted to do this. It was a smart business decision. It was a monstrously stupid personal one. But that basically summed up her life over the last decade—she could run a business, but she had no clue how to handle men.
Maybe that’s why Rhett was so damn appealing. She didn’t have to handle him. He wanted to handle her, and he gave step-by-step instructions on how to do it.
So she shifted her butt on her stool, inching forward, maneuvering between his open legs, her right hand gripping the bar top. Her lips parted in anticipation and she watched him as she leaned, watched the way he watched her, his stare never wavering, his eye contact so complete, so intense, it was instinctive to look away. But she didn’t. She forced herself to continue, even when she wanted to drop her gaze to her lap in confusion, view him under the demure protection of her eyelashes and a tilted head.
When she was close enough for him to reach for her without stretching, he did, putting the palm of his hand firmly on the back of her head and drawing her to him, with a commanding, but not harsh, pressure.
Then they were kissing. It wasn’t a kiss. It was kissing. It wasn’t tentative, or curious. The minute their mouths met, it was like they’d been there before many times, and both wanted more. Shawn had thought kissing was pleasant before, that it was a nice gesture of affection, or a precursor to the passion of sex. But never had she known that it could be this—a hot, wet explosion, an all-consuming tangle of tongues and desires, her breath ragged and desperate, his hand digging into the remains of her bun, yanking her hair harder with each passing second.
Just when she was reaching for him, wanting to slip her arms around his neck, wanting to snuggle in closer to brush her body against his, he seemed to sense her need and let her go so quickly she almost fell off her stool. Rhett stared at her, panting, his eyes hooded, expression unreadable. She stared back, unsure what to say, wanting to regain the upper hand, but feeling too confused, too aroused, to form a coherent sentence. She knew if she tried to speak, she wouldn’t be able to achieve the casual nonchalance she wanted to project. He would hear her nervousness.
Because he had made her nervous. Afraid that she might lose the bet. Afraid that she might lose even more than that before the six months of living with him was out.
What she really wanted to do was say something funny that would break the intimate spell between them, but she couldn’t think of a damn thing to say, which further confused her.
She settled on, “What date are you free to get married?” It was businesslike, efficient, and her voice only wobbled a little on the last word. The M word. Her stomach flipped like a pancake. She had not been a girl who had fantasized much about her wedding, but she had assumed that she would at least want to get married, not be terrified.
But hearing herself ask him the question like she was an employer asking when a new employee could start work, she felt significantly better. She could handle this.
“We’ll get married this Friday, which gives your lawyer time to draw up the papers. Then we’ll have a party to celebrate on Valentine’s Day,” he told her. “It will make it seem like a romantic elopement, totally legit. And you can wear sexy red lingerie on our wedding night. I prefer garters and corsets.”