Make Mine a Bad Boy (16 page)

And the realization caused him to sober.

Just as quickly, she stopped laughing and tipped her head to one side in confusion. “What?”

Since the entire beautiful thing was out of the question, he pointed to the speck of barbecue sauce just below her bottom lip. “You’ve got something right there.”

She swiped at her chin. “Did I get it?”

Being a man of few words, he reached out and took care of it himself. At the first touch of her soft skin, his finger lingered, then took a detour up to her mouth. Her lips opened, and a hot, moist puff of air caressed his finger, sending a shaft of heat straight to his stomach… and lower.

Cradling her jaw in his hand, he tipped her chin up with his thumb and leaned in.

“I think we missed a spot,” he breathed, before he lowered his mouth for a deep taste.

He expected some sort of refusal. Hope had never come easy. But instead, her mouth opened in sweet surrender, offering up spicy heat that, if he hadn’t been sitting, would’ve brought him to his knees. He took full advantage, sweeping his tongue into the warm recesses and coaxing her tongue into a sensual dance of give and take. But soon the connection of mouth and hand were not enough, and he crawled closer, bringing her up with him as he came to his knees.

She accommodated their differences in height by hooking her arms around his neck and straining closer as his hands slipped down to the sweet blue-jeaned cheeks he’d spent the last few nights dreaming of. Or possibly
the last fifteen years. The firm flesh filled his palms as he pressed her closer to the hardened fly of his jeans.

The snap and zipper of her jeans came undone without a hitch or argument, and within seconds, he had his hands beneath the denim. He stroked and teased each cheek until she quivered in his arms like the golden leaves overhead. And still it wasn’t enough. Patience had always been one of his virtues, but he wanted her naked. And he wanted her naked now.

The T-shirt slipped easily over her head, but the front snap of her bra took more than a few tries. Finally it slipped open, and he pulled back to look at what he’d exposed.

Sweet Lord.

He’d been right. She did own a teeny bikini. Two tiny white triangles encased sweet dollops of crème topped with deep raspberry nipples.

“Don’t you dare laugh, Lomax,” she said in a shy whisper.

“Oh, honey,” he breathed as he lifted two very shaky hands and slipped off the thin pink bra straps from her shoulders. “As God is my witness, these are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.” His hands slid over each one, cradling the softness. “The most beautiful things…” Unable to resist, he dipped his head and gave one small beaded nipple a gentle kiss. “Beautiful…”

“Colt,” she groaned, and her hand came to rest on the back of his neck, pulling him closer as her head fell back.

He swept his tongue over the rigid tip, circling it a few delicious times before pulling it into his mouth.

“I want you,” she stated as her fingers restlessly fluttered through his hair.

“And I want you too, baby.” He continued to sip and stroke. “More than you will ever know.”

“No.” Her fists closed around his hair, and she tugged hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. “Now. I want you now.”

Well, if she insisted.

His mind struggled with the logistics.

Hard ground.

Rough tree.

Small bike.

The ground won out. But before he could do more than kiss his way up her neck, a noise broke through his lust. A noise he instantly recognized as a truck engine—undeniably Chevy.

Shit.

Easing back, he took a moment to absorb the glorious bounty of Hope’s bare-chested surrender. The soft breasts and wet peaks gilded in golden sunlight. The curved waist and tanned stomach sloping down to the opened V of her jeans and the tantalizing peek of white lace. The sexual droop of those blue eyes as they stared back at him. It took every ounce of willpower he had to reach down for the bra and slip it back on.

“What?” She blinked back to reality, and saying good-bye to those lust-filled eyes was like a swift kick in the gut.

“Company,” he croaked, desire still high in his throat.

“Company!” She grabbed at the bra as the truck engine grew louder.

“Look, honey,” he tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Why don’t we go on back to Shirlene’s? I’ve got the guesthouse all to myself—”

“Not a chance, Lomax,” she stated with so much vehemence it left no hope.

No Hope, at all.

“I
SN’T THIS THE
most fun y’all have ever had?”

Faith and Hope exchanged dubious glances as Shirlene came out of the kitchen carrying a large tray of brownies and drinks. Dressed in cow pajamas with a tiara perched around her high ponytail, she looked like a little girl. A little girl with over-developed breasts and no clear idea of what constituted fun.

“I can’t believe you both wanted milk over margaritas.” She plopped the tray down on the glass-topped coffee table, sloshing milk and green liquid over the rims of the tall glasses. “It’s like you share the same addled brain.”

“Not hardly,” Hope said, although it was weird that she and Faith had said “milk” at the exact same time.

“I don’t know what you would call it.” Shirlene took the margarita glass and flopped down on the couch next to Faith. “Not only do y’all speak at the same time, but you’ve got that whole twin dress-alike thing down pat.”

… A twin dress-alike thing that had really started to annoy Hope. Every time she turned around, Faith was wearing the same outfit that she was. And every day it
became Hope’s goal to screw things up by switching outfits a couple times before leaving the house, but damned if she still didn’t come face-to-face with her mirror image. Thank God the woman had short hair. Although in the last few weeks, it seemed to have gotten longer.

“Of course, I think it’s absolutely adorable,” Shirlene continued, her eyes twinkling back at Hope. “I mean, just look at you two.”

Hope glared down at the flannel pajamas with the silly flying pigs on them. “Adorable if you’re seven.”

Picking up a brownie, Shirlene sent Hope a wounded look. “You mean you don’t like the pajamas I bought you, Hope?”

“Of course, she likes them,” Faith hurried to smooth things over. “She just…”

“She just feels ridiculous sitting here in a pair of ugly pig pajamas with a dumb tiara on her head,” Hope grumbled.

“You don’t like the tiaras I brought?” It was her sister’s turn to look hurt, except her look wasn’t fabricated.

But even though she’d started to feel some kind of big-sister sensitivity toward Faith, Hope refused to backpedal. Not when at any time, Colt Lomax could come waltzing into the house and have enough ammunition to amuse himself for a good month. Not that she cared what Colt thought. It was just that… she cared what Colt thought. And had always cared what he thought. Be it about her pink cowboy boots or her acting ability, Colt’s opinion mattered. It shouldn’t, but damned if it didn’t.

“No, I think they’re dumb.” Hope reached up to pluck the tiara off her head, but Shirlene had french-braided the thing right to her scalp.

“Now, honey, don’t be such a party pooper.” Shirlene lifted the plate of brownies and offered them to her. “Here, have some chocolate. I read it’s good for mood swings.”

“I’m not having mood swings, Shirl,” Hope said as she tried to twist the tiara free. “Geez!” She gave up and flopped back on the couch, glaring at both of the grinning fools. “What was I thinking, accepting an invitation to a slumber party at your house, Shirl?”

“You were thinking about how much fun we used to have at sleepovers.” Shirlene set the plate back down. “And you’d be having fun now, if you’d pull that corn cob out of your butt.” Lifting the margarita glass, she took a big sip before she winked. “Come on, Hope, let loose and get a little wild.”

Get a little wild? Oh, Hope had gotten a little wild, which was exactly why she sat there as tight as a brand-new pair of boots. Because a little wild was no longer enough. She wanted to go hog wild with a certain dark-headed, nimble-fingered motorcycle bum. A motorcycle bum who was only yards away. So close that her mind kept bringing up images of smoldering eyes, tight wet T-shirts, and warm, skilled lips.

Reaching out, Hope snagged a brownie off the plate and bit into it. The rich chocolate melted between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, but it did nothing to alleviate her cravings.

“So?” Shirlene pulled her bare feet up on the couch and tucked them under her. “What should we do now? Watch a chick flick? Paint our toenails—which Faith looks like she desperately needs? Or play a little Truth or Dare?”

Since Truth or Dare was the last thing Hope wanted to
play, she quickly tried to answer, but ended up choking on a chunk of brownie as Faith took the bait.

“Truth or Dare? I’ve always wanted to play that game.”

“Then Truth or Dare it is,” Shirlene said, before looking at Hope, who had finally dislodged the brownie. “Since Faith hasn’t played, I’ll go first. Start me off, Hog.”

Resigned, Hope flopped back on the couch. “I don’t know why I have to ask, you always choose Dare.”

“I do not, so quit stalling.”

“Fine. Truth or Dare?”

“Dare.”

Hope rolled her eyes and wondered why in the world she had chosen such an annoying woman as her best friend.

Reaching for another brownie, Hope tried to think up a good dare. It wasn’t easy. Not when Shirlene loved dares as much as her outlaw brother. She could have Shirlene strip off her cow pajama top and race around the outside of the house three times, but Shirl had never much minded getting naked. Nor did she mind making a fool of herself. In fact, Shirlene was up for just about anything.

Well… maybe not anything.

“All right.” Hope smiled evilly. “I dare you to attend First Baptist every Sunday for the next month.”

That got a rise out of her friend, and her size nine feet hit the Oriental rug beneath the coffee table with a thump.

“You know full well, Hope Marie Scroggs, that it has to be something I can do tonight—not next Sunday or the Sunday after. Besides, if folks caught me at church, they’d figure hell froze over and start sinnin’ up a storm.”

While Hope tried to come up with another dare, Faith spoke in her quiet voice. “How about not drinking for the rest of the night?”

Hope choked on the drink that she’d just taken, and milk rushed up her nose. But since this time it was at Shirlene’s expense, she didn’t mind so much.

“Oh, no, honey.” Shirlene held up a hand. “That’s not a good dare.”

“It’s not?”

“Oh, no, you want to suggest things like stripping naked and singing ‘Copacabana’ at the top of your lungs out in the front yard, or making me wear my panties on my head—stuff like that.”

“Actually, I think that’s a brilliant dare,” Hope said. “In fact, that’s the dare. No booze for the rest of the night.” She reached out and picked up the margarita with every intention of downing it herself. But the thought of mixing chocolate, milk, and lime didn’t sit well, so instead, she emptied it in the potted plant that sat on the end table next to her.

“That was a waste of fine liquor,” Shirlene stated, with the first frown Hope had seen all night.

“I doubt that.” She smiled innocently. “In this house, I’m sure the plant will thrive.”

Shirlene’s green eyes snapped. “Okay, Miss Smartie Pants, you’re up. Truth or Dare?”

It was a conundrum. Hope had quite a few truths that she wasn’t willing to share. Of course, if she chose Dare, she had little doubt she would be racing around outside without a shirt on. Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, especially with Lyle out of town. But now there was a guest in the guesthouse. A guest who needed no encouragement in that direction. Especially when he thought her small breasts were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.

Heat infused Hope’s body at the mere thought of those appreciative gray eyes, and she had a hard time getting out the answer.

“Truth,” she said, but when she noticed the devilish glint in Shirlene’s eyes, she quickly added. “But it’s Faith’s turn to come up with the question.”

“She came up with the dare.”

“No. She suggested the dare. I was the one who gave it.”

Shirlene flopped back on the couch. “Fine. But make it good, honey.”

Only a few seconds passed before Faith spoke. “Do you hate me for marrying Slate?”

Damn. Hope had been willing to answer anything but that. Well, maybe not anything. There were a few questions that could be worse—much worse. Still, this one was pretty bad. She studied one pink flying pig on the knee of her pajamas as she searched for the truth. Did she hate her sister? She hated spinach. Hated raisins cooked in anything. And pretty much hated Cindy Lynn. Or, at least, strongly disliked her. But what she felt for her twin sister wasn’t close to any of those things. In fact, since coming home, she hadn’t had much of a chance to figure out how she felt about Faith. Not when she’d been too busy trying to keep all her emotions bottled up, including her desire for a certain biker.