Colleen Collins - Joyride

He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. He meant to finish his question, ask about the redhead, but he couldn’t stop staring. Maybe because it was so surprising to see a woman with natural curves, with skin that glowed fresh and pink with no damn tan lines. The kind of skin that smelled faintly like pineapple or apples, and felt like silk under a man’s tongue…

“Don’t look!” she squealed, shifting the “1” to cover her breasts, which he didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d already seen. Hell, memorized. And in his mind, stroked and fondled…

“Sorry,” he mumbled around the toothpick, feeling about as unsorry as he’d ever felt in his life.

With a second squeal, she realized her bottom half was still unveiled, so she shifted the sign so it covered her thighs. It was a strain, but he maintained steady eye contact, unsure what she’d do next with that cardboard square. He didn’t have to wait long. As her chin quivered, she raised the sign to again cover her face, as though too humiliated for him to see her emotions.

He meant to not look further, to give her some room, some respect. But he’d been born a man, not a saint. It would have been easier to stop the sky from falling than stop his gaze. It fell languidly over flushed skin, noting the shadow indentation along her collarbone, and how her pulse throbbed in that sensual hollow at the base of her neck. Her breathing was rapid. He lowered his gaze another notch. Her breasts heaved with her shaky, uneven breaths.

The lady was nervous.

And, unless he’d lost his every last male instinct, excited.

Her reaction threw his into overdrive. He shifted his stance, determined to get out…after all, a thoughtful man, a gentleman, would leave.

Unfortunately, he’d never been either.

His gaze traveled to the curly triangle between her legs. Some distant corner of his mind registered that the color didn’t match the hair on her head. The thought faded, replaced by more pungent memories. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, remembering the sweet, wet tang of a woman’s perfume….

You’re here for business, buddy, not a body inventory.

With an aching reluctance, he lifted his gaze back to the big number “1” that blocked her face.

Corinne’s knees trembled. Partly out of fear—the only man who’d ever seen her with her clothes off was Tony. And, to be totally honest, she also trembled with excitement. Criminey, she’d never been in the same room—much less, naked—with a guy who looked like a rugged Mel Gibson with a surly, sexy attitude like Billy Idol.

Her knees had gone beyond trembling—they were wobbling. She tightened them, pressing the balls of her feet deeper into the toes of the high heels she’d practiced walking in all day. I should have locked the door! Too late now. At least if she kept her knees rigid and remained standing, she’d be all right. Don’t topple over, don’t topple over. She didn’t even want to think of the view she’d give—sprawled in an extremely unlady-like pose underneath ceiling lights that could double as interrogation lamps.

She peeked over the top of the board and caught the top of his unruly, chestnut-brown hair. It was wild, untamed—like him, no doubt. Throw those piercing green eyes into the mix and he made the term “bad boy” seem mild. She’d never been this close to such a man. She could almost feel his heat, his need…

…his staring at her body as though he had every right to peruse every inch of her nakedness…

Corinne groaned inwardly and leaned her head against the white board she held in front of her face, torn between covering her body or her face. But if she lowered this board, he’d see her look of utter humiliation. And at this very moment, seeing her emotions felt way more revealing than his seeing her uncovered body.

She recalled several days ago when she stood in the foyer of her home, wrapped in see-through plastic. She had been teetering in these same damn heels then, too. But she’d made the mistake of staring into the man’s eyes, the man she was supposed to marry, and saw within his self-absorbed, cold gaze that he didn’t really love her…

A man she couldn’t go back to, which was her only alternative if she didn’t pull this Sandee-gig together. Pull her wits together in front of this stranger, which is exactly what Sandee would do. No squealing for him to leave, no grabbing for her robe, which right now Corinne hadn’t the vaguest where’d she’d tossed it. She sucked in a fortifying breath. What would sassy, sexy Sandee say at a time like this? “May I help you?” Corinne squeaked.

He paused. “I’m, uh, looking for…something.”

His voice, unlike hers, was in control. Rock-bottom husky with a rough edge that sent involuntary chills rippling through Corinne. Jeez, she’d never lost it like this with any man—even her fiancé! She tightened her knees even more to ensure she remained standing upright. She glanced down and caught his feet. Big—was what they said about big feet true?—encased in a pair of worn sneakers. Above that, she saw a few inches of well-washed, roughened denim. Big, rough, with enough bad boy to make her never want to be good again…

The board was quivering uncontrollably, like the rest of her body. She gripped the edges harder, praying her sweaty palms didn’t lose their hold. That red nail polish she’d borrowed from Sandee was probably melting under this sexy guy’s scrutiny.

She cleared her throat. “Well, I’m the only something here.” Forget sassy and sexy…it took all of Corinne’s strength to sound somewhat normal. “And I need to get dressed.” Like that’s a news flash.

“Mind if I look around?”

“Haven’t you seen enough?”

A low, throaty chuckle was her response. Rather than the insidious feeling she’d experienced standing near naked in front of Tony and his bimbo, this man’s sexy chuckle said way more than words. Said he found her desirable. Her skin flamed hot. Probably a lovely shade of needy, I-haven’t-had-sex-in-two-months, take-me-now-now-now pink. Hell, with such visual clues, the sign might as well say, “Caution! Love-starved woman.” She tightened her knees harder.

Had Leo seen enough? Hell, no. A long buried primal urge wanted to see, taste, feel more so damn bad he thought he’d internally combust. Had to stop scoping out the babe, finish scoping out this room, and leave. “My buddy’s wife—she works here—thought she left her purse in one of these rooms.” A reasonable excuse considering lots of women worked here—from show-girls to waitresses. Plus women always related to the purse thing.

“Make it fast. I have to get—”

“Dressed. I know.”

Damn shame considering she looked mind-melding hot in nothing but a pair of heels. He scratched his chin and forced himself to look around. One black rayon workout bag. One silver-beaded purse. For a fleeting moment, he wondered about the different sides of her personality—a no-frills workout bag and beaded evening purse. Athletic and glamorous? Not your typical Vegas showgirl-model type.

Forget the babe. Check out the room. Nothing else indicated anyone else had been here. He debated whether to ask if she’d seen another girl, someone called “Red,” but decided that might show his hand. Time to split.

“Not here,” he croaked. “Wrong room.” Fighting the urge for one last look at pink flesh, he backed out the door.

After shutting it, he leaned his head against the wall and blew out a gust of pent-up angst. He pulled the broken toothpick from his mouth—when had he bitten it in two? Damn he’d lost it in there. Wrong room? Wrong reaction. That blast of white-hot need tearing through his insides was the last thing he needed…