A Perfect Storm
Page 70

“But since we are going to a bed…” She touched her forehead to his. “I can think of better things to do than…” She burped, then snickered. “Sorry.”
“Right. Hold that thought.” After pressing her head to his shoulder to remove a modicum of the temptation, he kicked the door shut and started forward.
Through the silent, dark house, Spencer carried her—and he enjoyed it. A lot. Probably too much.
“Not the couch?” she asked when he passed it.
“Not tonight, no.”
“I don’t want to sleep in your guest bedroom,” she rushed to say.
“I know.” He hugged her just a little. Sooner or later he’d find out why she hesitated to use the room. “I’m taking you to my bed.”
“Really?” Her arms tightened around his neck, and she whispered, “Change your mind?”
“No.” But God, he wanted to. Holding her like this felt…right.
And dangerous. To him and her, both.
The steady drumming of her heartbeat, the lush press of her br**sts to his chest, her warm thighs over his forearm…all combined to ramp up his awareness.
With regret, he let her legs slide down until her feet touched the tiled bathroom floor. He dropped her sandals and set her purse on the vanity. “Why don’t you do…whatever you do before bed, and I’ll be right back.”
She lounged against the sink. “Where are you going?”
“To lock up. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Okeydokey.” She closed the door on him.
Taking his time, Spencer turned the dead bolt on the front door, checked the windows and then went to his bedroom to turn down the bed. He’d just finished when Arizona emerged.
Her hair was damp around her face, so she’d splashed it—but hadn’t removed all her makeup. She stopped in front of him, swaying just a little.
He tipped up her chin and examined the place where she’d been hit. Even in the dim light, he saw the darkening bruise that colored the side of her mouth and along her jaw.
He touched it with his thumb. “I hate it that you got hurt.” Again. Under his watch.
Damn it, he wanted to protect her, not let her suffer more abuse.
Her mouth tilted. “I’ve had a lot worse, so quit worrying about it.”
Her breath smelled of toothpaste, and her eyes looked dazed. “You’re not making this any easier on me.” Bending down, he brushed his mouth over the bruise. She started to lean into him.
Before he got carried away, Spencer said, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back,” and he left for the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth, too.
Because he didn’t completely trust her not to bolt on him, he left the door ajar and listened for her while he did a rush job of preparing for bed.
Less than two minutes later he came out to find her curled on her side in his bed.
The jean skirt lay crumpled on the floor.
She hadn’t even bothered to get under the covers.
His heart punched hard at seeing her like that—deeply asleep, in his bed, wearing only black panties and an insubstantial tank top that hugged her lush curves.
Drawn to her, Spencer approached the bed, stood at the side of the mattress and took his time looking over every inch of her. A fully naked, well-posed centerfold model couldn’t have been more tempting.
Silky panties barely covered her, leaving much of her smooth hips and bottom on display. His hands curled with the need to touch her, to stroke over that honey-colored skin.
She had her long, sleek legs bent at the knee, one drawn up to expose her almost like an invitation. Visually he traced the rise of her proud shoulder, down the dip to her tiny waist and then back up again to the curves of that sexy backside.
Physically, he wanted her so much he hurt.
And emotionally… God, he choked on the thick emotions, they so overwhelmed him.
Because he had to touch her, he aimed for safe ground and drifted his fingertips through her hair, tucking it back so he could better see her beautiful face. Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to her brow. She felt baby soft and smelled woman warm—an intoxicating mix.
Now, right at this moment, she was dead to the world, at peace, her expression utterly relaxed.
Young.
Carefree.
All the things she should be—even when awake and aware.
If she saw him standing there with a jones, admiring her in her sleep, she’d probably deck him. Grinning over that probability, Spencer dropped his hand and took a step back, then slowly opened the snap to his jeans and slid down the zipper past his erection.
He would sleep with her, he’d hold her, but he would not take advantage.
There wasn’t anything he could do about the boner except suffer it.
Would she still want him in the morning?
Without drink clouding her judgment, would she still be able to push past her demons and overcome her reservations to take what she wanted?
And if she did, then what?
All his reasons for not indulging that final intimacy still remained. Taking her, being inside her, would only make it more difficult to do what was right—what was best for her, what would be honorable for him.
Because her past skewed her perception of any intimate relationship, Arizona didn’t—couldn’t—know her own mind. Her history hampered clear thought and insight the same way too much alcohol did. He shouldn’t take advantage of either.
Spencer shook his head. All the arguments made sense; they were valid, of course. But he fought a losing battle, and he knew it.