“Nothing’s wrong.”
“If there is, I want to know about it, so I won’t be surprised.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“I don’t like surprises. I want to be prepared, so I can handle whatever it is.”
This time she had no problem reading his expression, because exasperation was an easy one. “Nothing’s. Wrong.”
“Then why did you look as if you had a gas pain?”
His dark brows came down to a point over his nose. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“And you aren’t?” she retorted. She felt more certain of herself now that they were back on familiar ground: arguing. Not that they’d argued a lot—just once, in fact, the day she’d put her place up for sale—because after she’d seen how he was killing her business she’d actively avoided him, but in her imagination she’d had many, many aggressive conversations with him.
“Yeah, but you’re taking the lead on this one.”
Despite herself, she laughed.
Dare stared down at her for a split second, that strange expression back on his face. Then he moved fast, bending down and seizing her shoulders. Startled, she looked up at him and opened her mouth to either protest or blast him, and he kissed her.
Angie’s mind went blank. All of her gray matter seemed to freeze, because abruptly it was producing nothing, not a thought, not a word. His taste filled her, the same minty taste of the toothbrushes underlaid with him, Dare, man. Sensation flooded her, a hundred sensations that stood out crystal clear: the firmness of his lips, the scratchiness of the bristle on his face, the hard grip of his hands on her shoulders, the teasing stroke of his tongue against hers.
Somehow her fists knotted in the fabric of his shirt, holding on tight as if she might fall over if she didn’t, though the way he was gripping her there was no danger of falling anywhere. Somehow her mouth was open under the pressure of his, and she was vaguely aware that she was kissing him in return, her tongue meeting his, her lips clinging.
Then heat came roaring in like a wildfire, scorching along her nerve endings. Everything about him got to her: the hot scent of his skin underlying that of the fresh rainwater he’d used to wash, his taste filling her mouth, the strength of the hands holding her, and, God, yes, the size of the erection he’d put her hand on. Everything she felt physically mingled with the emotional whiplash he’d given her in the past fifteen hours and exploded inside her, hurling her straight into heaven or hell, maybe both, because she couldn’t tell one from the other. But it all became want, curling deep in her belly, clenching between her legs, taking her as unaware as if she had no idea what sex was about.
But she did, and this was Dare, and when her brain sluggishly began working again she couldn’t make sense of what was happening.
She pulled her head back with a jerk, staring up at him with huge dark eyes, blinking in bewilderment. “What are you doing?” she blurted.
And he smiled, that heart-thumping, stomach-knotting smile. “Shutting you up,” he said. “Now let’s get some damn sleep. I’m still bushed, so I hope you don’t twitch around like a squirrel on hot coals the way you did before.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Dare lay with Angie’s ass cuddled tight against his aching dick, hoping, praying, she’d twitch like that squirrel on hot coals he’d compared her to, but she was sound asleep. Despite the way she’d stared at him in shock after he kissed her, once she lay down again and got settled, she’d dropped off to sleep like a baby, which told him exactly how much the night before had taken out of her. He was still pretty wiped himself, and could feel sleep coming on, but he wanted to enjoy the feel of her snuggled against him for a while before he let go.
In a very surprising way, he’d enjoyed spending time with her, just having her company while he cleaned their rifles. She didn’t chatter, with one thought after another spilling out of her mouth, but if she had something to say she said it, no beating around the bush. She didn’t complain, she didn’t bitch, even though she’d had reason. Hell, he bitched his own head off occasionally, so he wouldn’t have held it against her.
Another thing: She was the most low-maintenance woman he’d ever met. If she had any hint of vanity, he hadn’t seen it. Not once had she even mentioned combing her hair; being clean and brushing her teeth seemed to be the extent of her upkeep. He wasn’t certain she wore makeup, anyway; if she ever had, it had been subtle enough that he hadn’t noticed it, not that he normally did anyway unless a woman went way overboard with the stuff. Maybe her thick, heavy dark hair was naturally sleek and she didn’t have to do a lot to it, period. Maybe tomorrow she’d wake up fretting because she didn’t have mascara and a blow-dryer, but he’d bet she didn’t.
He had a head-fucking mixture of frustration, amusement, and tenderness going on because of her. The first two he could deal with: He was frustrated because he’d wanted to get in her pants from the minute he’d first seen her, which meant he was dealing with two years’ worth of build-up, and he was amused because he had the upper hand now and she kind of knew it, and the way she was fighting back was as smart-ass as always, but she hadn’t yet really figured things out so she was a little off track.
But … tenderness? What the fuck did he know about that? He just knew that those solemn dark eyes of hers got to him, and when she’d smiled at him, for the first time ever, her face kind of lit up and the adrenaline hit had been almost like going into combat. When she’d actually laughed, that had been it, he’d had to kiss her, and if she hadn’t pulled away he’d still be kissing her plus doing a whole lot more.