Cait London - Typical Male

The sleek, roomy, leather-cushioned monster cost more than thirty of her junkyard pickups, bonded by wire and tape, and running on bald tires. “I’ll bet you’re behind on the payments for this rig.”

“Don’t talk.” Tyrell’s big dark hand tightened on the steering wheel, the other shifting the floor gear expertly. The dashboard lights glowed on the taut planes of his face. At that moment, he did look like his conquistador ancestors.

“You can’t handle the truth, can you? That your family land was built on the destruction of the rightful owner? Where are we going?” She studied the tall pine trees on the narrow dirt road, lasered by the vehicle’s lights.

“I am taking you out of my life.” The words were clipped and cold, quivering with frustration.

“You can try, Blaylock,” she said, burrowing into the warm blanket he had briskly tucked around her. She yawned and stretched, and tried valiantly to open her eyes.

The next time she awoke Tyrell was carrying her—back- pack, blanket and all—up the stairs of a lighted porch. Celine studied his profile, that set jaw, the muscle tensing in his cheek. Too bad his black, glossy lashes were so long and straight, shielding his eyes; she wanted to revel in how she’d shaken his safe little world, to see his fear. A tall, dark woman with a friendly face opened the house’s door the same time as Celine tried to squirm out of Tyrell’s arms. He held her tightly against him. Too close and too warm. He looked at her in a narrowed, hot, steamy way and his body seemed to ripple around her.

“See? I told you, you’d catch a cold,” she crowed and shot him her best smirk. His nostrils seemed to flare, his face tightening and darkening. A nasty little tic in his cheek began; the vein in his temple surged.

Celine blinked. Tyrell Blaylock looked nothing like the suit-clad steel stiletto she’d seen on that New York street corner. She had the strange and fascinating notion that this man was not far from his Native American and Spanish ancestors and that now, he wanted to carry her off to his isolated home. She stared at him and wondered why he held her so close, his body seeming to hum to hers.

Her hand, resting on his chest, picked up the hard staccato beat of his heart; heated vibrations that she did not understand started all over her body.

Tyrell glared at her. There was that slight flare of his nostrils again, a tic over his left eye. “You’re an emotional man, Tyrell Blaylock. Maybe too sensitive for your job in New York. I did you a favor.”

The woman at the door laughed outright, undaunted by his glare. “Tyrell? Sensitive?”

“Take...this, Else. She’s muddy and she’s got a mouth that never stops. Her name is Celine Lomax. She needs a place to stay for the night,” he said to the woman who resembled him. He dropped Celine to her feet, snagged her neck with a big, warm hand and shoved her inside. As though an afterthought, he reached inside to rip his blanket from her. He eyed her darkly with enough impact to lift the hair on her nape, then he closed the door between them.

Fully awake now, Celine blinked. A cat was twining around her legs, a friendly-looking man was smiling at her from the living room, and the house was definitely a home, fresh with scents of children and baking bread. Over her dress, Else wore an apron and a small sleepy child tucked on her hip. This was a Blaylock home and one Celine might tear apart.

She wasn’t certain what to say, or how to act. Delicious aromas wafted to her, and as a reminder that she hadn’t eaten, her stomach clenched. Latticed pies sat on a counter, and next to the smiling man was a rocking chair still teetering as if Else had been rocking the child.

Homes terrified Celine—she knew little of them. The warmth in this home reached out to her like a magnet; she’d dreamed of homes like this, and a mother—terror rose, chilling her. She had to escape. “He’s getting away,” she explained hurriedly and opened the door.

Else laughed aloud. “I know. You’re welcome to stay here tonight. But if you’re going to catch my brother, you’d better hurry. My brothers get moldy when they’re not stirred up and Tyrell is definitely—You’ve got him on the run. I wouldn’t lose any advantage by letting him get away like that.”

“I do? You wouldn’t?” Celine turned to study Tyrell’ quick stride toward his four-wheeler. “I do have him on the run, don’t I?”

“He had the last say, you know. I wouldn’t let him get away with that if I were you.”

“You wouldn’t?”

Else grinned, cuddling the sleepy child closer. “If I went you and he dumped me like a stray cat, I’d want him to pay.’

“Thanks. You’re right. I can’t let him get away with shoving me around.” Celine took a second to study Else, the matroi of the Blaylock family. The gas station attendant had said that Else had ruled her brothers and had taken.over her mother’ place in the community. Celine shivered; she didn’t know what a mother’s place was—her mother had walked out.

Else hugged the sleeping child tighter to her and nodded, he eyes dancing with amusement. Celine pushed away that little quiver of warmth, a woman who for the moment agreed with her, almost like a friend. Celine hurried out the door; she couldn’t think about Else Blaylock Murphy now. She had to get Tyrell.

Tyrell Blaylock presented a good, solid target. Above those long jeaned legs and narrow hips, his black sweatshirt covered a good rangy width of back and shoulders. Celine hurled the weight of her body at him; she hit him squarely in the bach with both open hands. He lurched forward a step and pivoted in one motion, crouching slightly. “I’ve had enough of you for one day, Lomax,” he said between his teeth as he straightened He flung the blanket he’d been carrying onto his four-wheelen

“You deserve it. You had no right to drop me off like an unwanted cat. What’s the matter? Can’t take a Lomax? Afraid of me?” she shot at him. As a child, before she’d learned to fend for herself, she’d been shoved into other places and some of them weren’t friendly. She knew she’d been unwanted by her mother, but she didn’t have to take that as an adult—from a Blaylock. Unknowingly Tyrell had really hit a sore spot.

“You’re pushing, Lomax,” he said between his teeth. “I don’t like it.”

“Really?” She slathered the word in delight; she’d gotten to him. She launched her best smirk at him.

His eyes narrowed as he towered over her. Battling her instincts to step back, Celine deepened her smirk up at him. She knew she was getting to him because that tiny muscle above his left eye started quivering.

“It’s the dimple,” he muttered with disgust, just before he pulled her into his arms and fused his mouth to hers.

She’d been kissed before—when she was an experimenting teenager. She hadn’t had time to explore her own needs, and that one brief painful teenage experience with sex was enough to last forever.

Stunned, she stared at Tyrell’s closed lashes, the line between his brows. Enclosed by his arms, by the heat coming from his body, Celine reached for his hair to pull him away. Her fists latched to the sleek damp strands and then the incredible heat and hunger of his mouth upon hers caused her mind to blank for a heartbeat

He’s devouring me, burning me, she thought distantly as her fingers curled into the strands and her eyes closed to seal in the pleasure riding her. Tyrell’s open hands claimed her close, one riding low on her hips, the other at the back of her head, supporting her and pressing her close to his body.

His obviously aroused body.

She wanted to stop and think, to dissect her options, but the tropical storm flashing inside her burned out any logic. She simply felt. Tasted. Hungered and dived into all the exciting textures surrounding her. Tyrell slanted his mouth, taking the kiss deeper, his hand surged beneath her bottom and lifted her firmly up to him.