Her breast brushed against his biceps, and she felt him tense, as if holding himself back.
“How’d you end up in that kind of home?” he asked, voice low, rougher than it had been on the phone, an almost-growl taking the place of the very faint lilt.
When she drew in a breath, it sounded shaky, all her pent-up needs wavering on the edge.
“My dad took a job here back when I was in college. He’s an architect and fell in love with the house because it’s from the—what is it?” She snapped her fingers. “Second Bay-Area Tradition Style.”
Despite the house’s beauty, it was lonely living by herself. She concentrated on Kyle’s nod to chase away the thought.
“What about your mom?” Kyle asked.
“Divorced. We talk on the phone, but…” She faded off, not wanting to chat about this. To hide it, she perked up, determined to make this night a great one. “Enough about me. You’ve got a family, I suppose.”
“You’re not thinking I was raised by wolves? I’ve given you the wrong impression, then.” He grinned down at her, and she could tell by the look on his face that, even during this seduction, he could still allow a moment of affection for his family to intrude.
But seconds later his eyes had darkened again, consuming her as he ran a gaze over her mouth.
Her knees wobbled a bit. Whoo-boy.
She swallowed. “Wolves? Except for the part where you were late, you’re a perfect gentleman.”
His laugh was on the biting side. He chopped it off by gesturing toward the entrance of a nondescript bar, indicating that this was their destination.
When he ushered her inside, their talk about personal details eased off. That was because she was too enchanted by the room to pursue anything else.
The decor was beatnik, with low lighting, intimate booths and a sense of indelible cool. Two women dressed in Kerouacesque turtlenecks—the only customers—played pool under the multihued liquor bottles that hung from the rafters. The glass was backed by soft lights, creating a rainbow of muted color. Near the back, a door opened into what looked like a courtyard, and next to it, a man worked his fingers over the strings of a bass, his tune moody and sinful.
Kyle grabbed them a couple of drinks, then led her outside where lounge chairs faced an empty wooden stage. They probably held spoken-word readings here, she thought, excited by the prospect. But right now she and Kyle were alone.
She felt his gaze on her, and when she met it, he wasn’t smiling anymore.
No. He had that look. The look of a man who’d brought her here for privacy.
She returned that look, ready for whatever came next.
SHE WAS ACTUALLY responding to him.
The confirmation of his hopes only added to the heady thrill of what he was getting away with. For the first time in years, he was breathing easy. In fact, he hadn’t even thought of work since Kyle had left, and that was something.
Still…what in the hell was he doing?
He set down their drinks then watched as she sighed and sank back against the brick wall. Beneath the glow of a lantern, the buttery hue bathed her skin, making the highlights in her curly hair dance. Her hand drifted up to touch her neck, and she rubbed her fingertips over her skin, as if sending a silent invitation.
“I’ve been here during the summer, way back when,” he said. “They had a man who spoke Ray Charles songs like they were poems.”
The low, alluring musings from the bass floated on the air, seducing his conscience, telling him it was okay to lie for just one night.
“Does he still perform here?” Tam asked. Her voice wasn’t higher than a whisper.
“I have no idea. I—” Careful.
He’d almost added that he didn’t have much time for entertainment anymore, but he’d stopped himself. Kyle wouldn’t have said it, and neither should he.
Suddenly too self-aware, Murphy didn’t move toward her, even though he was dying to.
In an effort to change the subject yet again, he said, “Your hair. It’s…”
“I know. Messy. Frizzed out.”
She glanced away, and disappointment seized him. But then, as if recovering from something, she looked at him again, allowing that huge, gorgeous smile to light over her lips.
“It’s not messy at all,” he said. “I like it.”
Understatement. It reminded him of steamy nights, of a woman lounging on a bed with the sheets sweated to her body, her hair in disarray. Reminded him of younger, New Orleans-misted memories from Tulane.
Dammit, he wanted to see her that way, sated and relaxed by what he could do to her.
“I guess,” she said, voice low as she moved closer, “it’s natural that you’d like my hair. You said on the phone that you’re into wild things.”
The comment made him smile. And he knew it was a smile he wouldn’t normally wear. It felt wolfish, appropriate for a man reaching out to test a woman’s hair between his fingers, wishing he could slip his hand a little lower….
“You’re into the same things, right, Tam?”
She was playing the game—the touch-and-go of verbal foreplay. It was in the tilt of her mouth, the rise of her chin as she met his stare.
“Wild as in…?” she ventured.
Screw it.
He reached toward her, coasting his fingers to the back of her neck, slipping one into her high collar to smooth over her nape. He heard her intake of breath.
“As in—” he whisked his fingertips downward over her spine to the small of her back, where he started drawing slow circles “—anything goes.”
Good. So, so good.
As her breathing got faster, his other hand crept around to her throat. He stoked the soft skin of it, feeling her working to swallow.
“I don’t really even know you from Adam,” she said.
Or Kyle.
She’d said the right words, revving him up with the reminder that he’d left himself behind.
“Then we need to do something about getting acquainted,” he whispered.
He knew she could leave right now—that he could, too. But neither of them was moving.
Maybe she was the type of woman who knew what kind of message those boots sent. And maybe she could give Murphy what he needed.
A taste of bad.
4
AS KYLE STROKED Tam’s throat, he also pressed and circled his fingers just below her spine—in very insistent, very persuasive caresses. They sent rivulets of gathered steam through her belly, dampening and readying her for more.
Her breathing picked up speed, and she instinctively shifted her hips, getting closer to him. When her stomach brushed his jeans, a hard ridge told her that this was really on. That she was back in the game.
She gripped his shirt as her sex tightened into a pinpoint of stimulated pain.
She’d missed this. One whole year had gone by since her last make-out session, but, miraculously, tonight was proving that it wasn’t impossible for her to be wanted. How was it that this gorgeous man didn’t see what she saw in the mirror?
Still…there was something keeping her from fully grinding against him, giving in and going for it. Was it fear that he would realize he wasn’t attracted to her after all?
An