Being in his arms had warmed at least the rest of her up, especially since steam had practically been rolling off the man ever since she’d flat-out said she planned to let him catch her. He’d barely said a word since and Bridget had been too busy wondering how to get caught to force him into any more conversation.
Now, however, they were alone, inside, with nothing between them but some cold stale air that smelled of pine and earth…and Dean’s own stubborn, protective nature.
Not for long. He would not be resisting her for long.
The cabin might be a half hour from the nearest telephone and lacking electricity, but it was no shack in the woods. Clean and comfortable, this was a wealthy man’s idea of roughing it. The pine floors sparkled, the butcher-block table gleamed, and the leather furniture looked like it’d stepped off the pages of an Ethan Allen catalog. She’d bet there was a generator and probably a portable heater. But she didn’t mention that to Dean.
She wanted low lighting and an excuse to demand body heat.
“I’ll get a fire going.” Dean lifted some logs from a pile by the hearth and put them in the woodstove. “You hanging in?”
“Yes.”
And she was. Remarkably, she really was. If anybody had told her twenty-four hours ago that she’d be spending the night in a rustic cabin in the middle of nowhere with Dean Willis, she’d have asked what they’d been smoking. But it was true, she was here…for the next thirty-six hours, at least.
The question returned: what shall we do to fill our time?
Those condoms were singing a siren’s song from her purse.
“Why don’t you just go to bed?” Dean asked, not looking up at her. “There’s a futon in the loft. I can take the sofa.”
Bridget shook her head. “I’m not leaving this woodstove.”
“Heat rises, it’ll be fine up there in a half hour.”
Lowering herself to the edge of the plush, dark leather sofa, she smiled sweetly. “Then I’ll wait a half hour.”
He mumbled something under his breath but she ignored him. Bridget watched his every move, knowing he had to feel her hot stare on him but not really giving a damn. The man was so powerful, the thick muscles in his arms and chest flexing and rippling beneath his long-sleeved black shirt as he worked. He was also so obviously uncomfortable around her. All because she’d made her intentions clear.
In Bridget’s opinion, it was about time someone did. Because Dean certainly hadn’t. Not when he’d been pretending to be Mr. Nice. And not tonight, when he’d grabbed her and bolted.
“So what is it you plan to do with me?” she asked, both because she wanted to know and because she liked the way the tips of his ears turned red when she said something outrageous. Asking him what he planned to do with her—with the emphasis on the word do—probably sounded outrageous to his strict FBI ears.
“I’m going to sit on you here until Monday morning, deliver you to the courthouse, watch you testify, then let you go.”
She knew what he meant but played dumb. Smiling as she leaned over from the couch, knowing her red gown gapped away from her chest, she murmured, “Sit on me? Sounds uncomfortable.”
Dean, who’d been squatting as he stuck bits of kindling into the woodstove, jerked his head up and stared at her. His eyes blazed with more intensity than the struggling flames and his mouth pulled taut. “Just what is it you’re trying to do here, Bridget?” he asked, sounding not only angry but intensely curious. As if he truly didn’t know.
How could he not know? Was he really ignorant to the fact that she was absolutely dying for him? Would give anything to have him, if only for a few hours?
Maybe. And if so, she really ought not to keep him in the dark any longer. So without another word, Bridget rose to her feet. She reached around to the back of her dress, slowly drawing the zipper down, letting the sleeves loosen and slip off her shoulders until the tops of her breasts were gradually revealed.
With a gulp of air for courage, she let the gown go, until it dropped to the floor at her feet.
“I’m trying,” she finally replied, “to finish what you started that day last August.”
THOUGH THE AIR hadn’t changed and he hadn’t moved a muscle, Dean began to sink down under an almost tangible weight on his entire body. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, could only sit in shocked silence while Bridget let her wicked red dress fall away. Beneath it she wore even more wicked lingerie. Skimpy, tiny panties, wickedly seductive stockings and a red demibra that, as she’d threatened in the car, plumped her luscious breasts up rather than making any effort to cover them.
His hands clenched into fists and his mouth went dry. The heat blasting every inch of him had nothing to do with the fire he’d just started in the woodstove. And everything to do with her. How she looked. How she smelled. How she stared down at him with pure hunger in her eyes.
How he’d felt around her since the day he’d met her. Off balance, breathless, confused.
Captivated.
“I know you’re doing your job,” she whispered, “and I know there’s nothing personal about it and after Monday, we go our separate ways again. But we’re adults, we’re alone. We’re here for the next day and a half…and you wanted me once.”
He shook his head, denying that last part. “I have always wanted you, Bridget.”
He could have said more. Could have told her that he’d been attracted to her since the first time he’d gone into the dealership last summer. Or that he’d become addicted to her smile, intoxicated by her laugh as every day had passed. That on the day he’d kissed her, he’d been so out of his mind with desire for her that he’d walked around with a hard-on for two days.
And more…that it had infuriated him when his colleagues had badgered her for hours after Marty’s arrest. That it had killed him to stay away from her since.
But none of that needed to be said now. Not while Bridget was watching him with glittering wide eyes and moist, parted lips. Offering herself. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he murmured, watching her from below, sitting on the faux bearskin rug in front of the stove. He devoured her with his gaze, coveting the delicate curves of her breasts, dying for a taste of the dark nipples peeking through her bra.
She shook her head. “I’m not beautiful.”
He rose to his knees. Lowering his hands to her ankles, he fingered the straps of her high-heeled sandals, then moved his palms up her stocking-clad legs. “No, you’re stunning.”
She didn’t deny it this time, merely hissed in a breath as he reached the top hem of her sultry, thigh-high stockings. The breath was released with a tiny whimper when his fingertips transitioned from silky nylon to the silkier skin of her thighs.
“So soft,” he murmured. The skin was creamy and delicate, the limb slender and supple. He couldn’t wait to feel those legs wrapped around his hips as he finally plunged inside her the way he’d wanted to for so long. “I love the way you feel.”
She swayed on her feet. The movement brought her hip close to his mouth and Dean leaned forward to brush his lips against the lacy edge of her panties. “I’ll love the way you taste.”
“Oh, my,” she whispered, dropping her hands onto his shoulders, as if needing his support to stay up.
“I’ve got you,” he muttered, spreading his fingers around to grip her hips. Then he rocked her close to his mouth again until he was breathing directly onto the silky triangle of fabric covering that intoxicating spot between her legs.
“Dean…”
“Shh. Let me experience