Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (free ebook reader txt) 📗

“I have no idea why I’m here,” Clay admitted, taking pains to enunciate each word. “I told myself this wasn’t going to happen, and I tried to stay away.  I really did.  And your cousin wasn’t supposed to let me come over here.  We had a deal.”

Narrowing his eyes, he shot some irritation in the general direction of the bar.  “But I suspect some kind of set-up.”

Tate folded her arms across her chest.  “You mean, like I asked one of the twins to get you drunk and send you over here?”

“I’m not drunk. Precisely.”

Tate arched a single brow.

“You’re wearing your nightgown,” he pointed out, obviously figuring it was in his best interest to redirect the topic.  “You shouldn’t open the door to a stranger looking like that.  Hell, you shouldn’t open the door to me looking like that.  And I meant that Rogan set me up, not you.  Although to tell you the truth, it might have been Declan that sent me packing.  They look an awful lot alike when one’s been drinking.  Are you going to let me in?  Cause if not, I can just go sleep in my truck.  Or call a cab.  Because Justin’s at the hospital.  Poor guy needs to get a life.  You know…”

He gestured grandly with his arm, and Tate pressed her fingers to her lips to keep from laughing.

“…that’s really very unhealthy.  It leads to burn out and all kinds of stress.  I should know because I’ve recently lost my mind.  God you’re pretty.  I just want to bury myself inside you until nothing else matters.”

As propositions went, it was rambling and not all that cohesive.  He looked like something a cat had mauled and then left on Tate’s doorstep for inspection.

Still alive, but twitching and severely impaired.

And the really sad thing?

She still found the man absurdly appealing.  She was either crazy about him, or more hard-up than she cared to admit.

“Come in.” She sighed, pulling the door wider.  A cloud of late night heat and bar fumes entered behind her guest.  She’d have to get him cleaned up and then put him in her bed.  She could always sleep with Max.

He scratched behind his ear, looked charmingly sheepish.  “I’m sorry.  I hope I didn’t get you out of bed.”

“I just got out of the shower.  Bed was next on the agenda.”

“You smell like peaches.”  He sniffed the air.

“I wish I could say the same.”

Grimacing, Clay looked down at his clothes.  “I, uh, bumped into something. There was spillage.”

Amusement edging out irritation, she stroked a finger over a splotch on his chest.  “Best get you out of your clothes, then.”  Too late, she realized what she’d said.  “And boy, did that not come out right.”

“Oh, I think it did.”  His eyes went hot, desire burning off the chagrin.  His intention to kiss her was clear, and Tate took a step back.

Clay stalked slowly forward.

There were so many reasons not to do this.  Hadn’t he turned her down just a few hours ago?  And now here he was in her entry, not precisely drunk.

But when his hand snapped forward, winding into her hair, she allowed herself to be drawn in.

“I need you.” He breathed it, smelling of the mints he must have grabbed at the bar.  The tempest she’d been expecting broke in a shower of electricity between them.  “It scares the hell out of me, Tate, because I’ve never needed anyone so much.”

And it was what she needed to hear.

Winding her own hands until they met at his nape, she pulled his head down to hers.

He licked his way into her mouth with way more hunger than finesse. She tasted mint, the mellow grain of beer, the tang of something spicy.  And under, maybe through it all, the sweet punch of arousal.  It had been so long since she’d felt like this.

Maybe she’d never felt like this.

When he lifted the edge of her gown, drew her closer, she gave herself up to the storm.

Hands streaking under the cotton, Clay groaned when he encountered skin.  He plied the ins and outs of each of her curves, learning her with his fingers.

Tate’s breath caught when he grazed the undersides of her breasts, brushed his callused palm over her nipples.

And when he eased a finger down, slipped inside, she was already slick with wanting.

“Ah, Tate.”  He said it reverently, like a prayer.  And pushed another finger into her.

“Clay… we need…” The words stuttered out between searing kisses.  The response he made was incoherent, and his muscles tightened beneath her hands when she grasped his arms. But she pushed him back with just enough force to let him know he needed to stop.

“Not here,” she gasped when he lifted his head, the warm chocolate of his eyes unfocused.  “I can’t make love to you in the hall.”

Clay pulled his hand from beneath the gown, slipped it around hers.  Tate was startled by the wetness there, and even more surprised that it heightened her arousal.

She started to move toward the stairs, but Clay caught sight of the sofa in the front parlor.

“This is quicker.” He pulled her with him.

“Clay, we can’t –”

But he moved with single-minded determination, leading her toward the Victorian settee.  It was an antique, hard and uncomfortable, and had been in Tate’s family for years.  Clay didn’t seem too concerned.  He closed the door behind them.

“Clay….mmmpf.”

Tate found herself pressed against the smooth wood of the door, much as she had the night he’d fought the mugger in the alley.  Only instead of his hand, his mouth covered hers, and instead of fear, her veins pulsed with excitement.

From somewhere beside her, she heard the lock turn with a soft snick.

His hand manacled her wrists, stretched her arms over her head so that she was well and truly pinned.  Hot and hungry, he clamped his teeth against her neck.

“Oh God,” she breathed, suspecting that if he wasn’t holding her up, she’d just slide right down the wall. When his