Tangled Up in Love (12 page)

She glanced at Turk again. Then another decent-looking guy at the bar. One standing with a group of friends at the back of the bar. Zack. Gage.

Dylan.

Shit. Her Orgasm-o-Meter didn’t even flicker while contemplating any of those other men. But aim it at Dylan Stone and she nearly came in her seat.

Slouching down in the booth, she crossed her arms
over her chest and grumbled, “Says the woman who’s been getting the long, slow one slipped to her every damn night. Lucky bitch.”

“That’s right. Although it isn’t always slow,” Grace agreed with a wink, while Ronnie wondered if she could drown herself by sticking her head in what was left of the Mudslide mixture in the pitcher on their table-top. “Which means I know of what I speak, and you two should listen to me. Ronnie is so tense, she’s likely to shatter if a stiff wind blows by. And you, Jenna . . . It’s been a year already. You’ve got to get over Gage and the divorce and move on with your life. Find someone,
anyone
to rip your clothes off and remind you that you’re an attractive, vibrant, multiorgasmic woman.”

Ronnie blinked, meeting her friend’s gaze.

“What?” Grace wanted to know. Then she threw up her hands and leaned against the back of the booth. “You two can’t be mad at me. It’s nothing you didn’t need to hear, and we’ve said way worse to each other. You guys are the ones who told me I was an idiot to date, let alone marry, a professional hockey player because he’d be a jerk and a cheat and break my heart.”

Her voice rose with every word, as though she was truly worried she’d upset her best friends.

But Ronnie was much too preoccupied to be offended. Pushing her glass away, she swallowed hard and lowered her voice. “I’m not going to sleep with Turk or anyone else. But there is something I need to tell you.”

For the first time in as long as Dylan could remember, high-pitched, trilling laughter was not floating over from the girls’ booth. He’d seen Ronnie come in, along with Grace and Jenna, and had been watching her from the corner of his eye ever since.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her mouth. The taste of her. The feel of her. That brief, powerful kiss that had knocked him for much more of a loop than he ever would have expected.

Sometimes he thought he could still feel her lips moving beneath his, her body pressed against him like a second skin.

Zack and Gage were in the middle of a heated debate over last week’s game where the Cougars beat the Rockets four to two. Dylan listened with only half an ear, the rest of his attention on the women across the room.

Rather than tossing their hair and laughing raucously over brightly colored drinks as he was used to seeing, they seemed strangely subdued. Heads bent together, small glasses of amber-colored liquid and a few empty bottles among them, their expressions serious. He was curious about what they were discussing, and
even attempted to read the women’s lips until he was forced to admit that wasn’t one of his strong suits.

Several minutes later, a waitress came to clear their table, and the ladies began digging in their respective purses for money to pay the tab.

When Ronnie slipped out of the booth to stand, she faltered a little, reaching out for the edge of the table to steady herself. Grace moved to her side to take her elbow and whisper something in her ear. Ronnie shook her head and turned, taking a few careful, measured steps toward the bar entrance.

Before he’d even thought through what he was going to do, Dylan pushed to his feet and started forward. Grace was saying something else, and Ronnie nodded, but he broke in, not wanting them to finish what he was pretty sure they were talking about.

“Hey,” he said, sounding too chipper even to his own ears.

All three women lifted their heads and turned in his direction.

“Dylan,” Grace and Jenna both greeted him . . . less than friendly because of their loyalty to Ronnie, but still polite because of his relationship with their significant or formerly significant others.

Ronnie merely glared.

Even from where he stood with a foot or two of empty space separating them, he could tell she was drunk. Not hold-on-to-the-grass-to-keep-from-falling-off-the-earth drunk, but definitely too inebriated to drive herself home.

Getting right to the point, he said, “Looks like somebody had too much to drink. Can I offer you a ride home? Your place is right on my way.”

Well, if he took the long route.

For a moment, no one responded. Ronnie’s mouth turned down in a frown, then Grace piped up.

“That would be great, thank you so much. I really wanted to go home with Zack, but I wouldn’t feel right about not seeing Ronnie home safely first.” She actually reached out to grab both Dylan’s and Ronnie’s arms and link them together, presumably to keep her tipsy friend from toppling over.

He expected Ronnie to pull away, to immediately yank her arm back and maybe even shake it to dispel the cooties she might have picked up by touching him. Honest to God, she was the prickliest, most tightly wrapped person he’d ever met. But instead, she left her hand where it was and only her fingers moved, curling into talons that dug into his forearm.

“You’re leaving me?” Ronnie nearly shrieked at Grace in what he was sure she thought was a stage whisper. “After everything I told you tonight? What kind of friend are you?”

Far from chastised or offended, Grace merely smiled and leaned in to kiss her friend’s cheek. “I know you don’t think so right this minute, but I’m doing you a favor.”

Then she moved even closer and whispered something directly into Ronnie’s ear.

Ronnie reared back, horror etched into every line of her face. “I’d rather take my chances with Turk!” she bellowed, her voice carrying over the music and other high-volume noises from the crowded bar.

Several Box patrons—including the towering, muscle-bound bartender—turned their attention to her. She lowered her voice and growled, “Traitor.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Grace said, patting Ronnie’s hand before looping an arm through Jenna’s.

Then she turned to Dylan. “She’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep. I hope you can see that she gets one.”

Was that a sparkle in the blonde’s eye? A subtle wink or maybe a thinly veiled suggestion? He blinked, studying her again more closely, but whatever had been there was gone.

He must be imagining things. Maybe he’d had too much to drink himself—though it usually took more than two beers for him to start hallucinating.

But just the hint of insinuation from Zack’s fiancée had his blood firing up and catching the first train south. Helping Ronnie get a good night’s sleep sounded like a good idea to him, and he could think of any number of ways to get her there. Sixty-nine. Around the world. Ride the pony. Even plain old missionary would be fine with him, as long as she was naked and burning beneath him.

“Okay, time to go,” he said, more to himself than to her. He needed to get out of there, out into the chilly night air to cool off before he overheated.

Although she moved with him as he crossed the room toward the door, that didn’t keep her from arguing. “I don’t need you to give me a ride,” she told him. “I haven’t had that much to drink. I can drive myself. Or I can go home with Jenna. Or I’ll wait until Grace and Zack are ready to leave and go with them.”

Dylan cast a look back over his shoulder at the table where the four of them—Zack, Grace, Gage, and Jenna—were now gathered. Grace was perched happily on Zack’s wide knee while Gage and Jenna sat about as far apart as humanly possible while still being seated at the same table.

“I don’t think they want to be bothered with you tonight.”

“Bite me, Stone.”

Reaching for the door handle, he ushered her outside ahead of him, still holding on to her arm in case she lost her footing. He sighed as they made their way down the sidewalk toward The Penalty Box parking lot at the side of the building.

“We’ve been through this. Under the right circumstances, I’d be happy to, as long as you promise not to be too rough with me in return. I wouldn’t want to get the spiked heel of one of your domiknitrix boots jabbed in the middle of my spine.”

When they reached his jeep, he unlocked the passenger door and let her in, making sure she was properly seated, all limbs and clothing inside, before slamming the door. She remained silent that long, but as soon as he slid behind the wheel, she was ready with a sharp retort.

“If you’re ever lucky enough to even
see
my boots, I won’t be putting the heel in the middle of your back, Stone.”

“I don’t know,” he said with a chuckle, his fingers tapping out a meaningless staccato beat on the steering wheel as he pulled onto the street. “I happen to think I could give you a run for your money in the sack. You may have the whips and leather chaps, but I’ve been known to bring a woman to orgasm a dozen times in one night.”

She gave an unladylike snort. “And who might that have been? Bambi, your blow-up doll?”

“No. I assure you, all the women I’ve been with have been very real.”

“Uh-huh. Well, then, I’ve got news for you, Stone.
Whichever
real live woman
you claim to have done that with was faking it. Twelve times over . . . she must have been quite the accomplished actress. Either that or a consummate professional—the kind who charges by the hour.”

He slanted a glance at her, and even in the dark confines of the jeep, Ronnie could see the amused arc at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re just jealous. When was the last time a man made you come more than once in a night? I’m betting . . . what? . . . senior year of high school, junior year of college?”

That
was something she definitely did not want to discuss.

And how was it that this man—man, jerk, asshole—knew just what to say to make her head pound and her stomach churn?

Hadn’t she just been brooding over how very long it
had
been since anyone other than she herself had rocked her world, curled her toes, or made her see the face of God?

Two hundred sixty-one days and counting,
she thought with derision.

In response to his question, she mumbled a less-than-impressive, “None of your business.”

At this point, Ronnie didn’t even care that she was making a fool of herself in front of her sworn enemy. Kahlúa and vodka and beer, and possibly a couple of shots of whiskey, all mixed together to fog her brain and slow her synapses.

She needed some food or coffee, or at the very least a nap . . . and to be as far away from Dylan Stone as possible.

“Care to take me for a test run? I’d be willing to give you two or three big Os on the house. If you like them, you can come back for the whole shebang.”

“And if I don’t?” she retorted. “How exactly would I go about requesting a refund?”

He flipped his signal for a right turn, then in true macho-man fashion straightened his spine and clipped out, “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Maybe you just weren’t listening. Or maybe you were asleep. That’s what most men do, right? Get off, roll over, fall asleep.”

Pulling up to the curb beside her apartment building, he cut the engine, palmed his keys, and released his seat belt. He turned slightly to face her, and she could clearly read the confidence in his expression in the glow of an overhead streetlight.

“I’m not most men.”

She stared at him for a long minute, then she raised a brow and asked innocently, “Really? Does that mean you don’t even bother getting off before you fall asleep? You just go unconscious right in the middle? Now I feel even more sorry for your dates. This also explains that whole
twelve orgasms in a night
assertion . . . you must have dreamed them.”

With a scowl, he climbed out of the jeep and came around to assist her. She wiped the wide grin off her face just as he yanked her door open and reached for her arm.

Gathering her purse and tote and straightening her skirt, she lowered herself to the sidewalk, pleased when she teetered for only a second. And that was due entirely to the height of her heels, she was sure.

“Why do you drive a jeep?” she asked as they headed for the front of her building.

“Because it’s too heavy to carry.”

Caught off guard by his reply, Ronnie laughed. Not just a light, amused chuckle, but a full belly laugh that ended with an unladylike snort.

Embarrassed, she covered her mouth, then lost her balance and leaned heavily into Dylan’s side. He caught her, helped her right herself, then slid an arm around her waist to keep her that way.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “Sorry.”

He led her to the elevator and pushed the button. A second later, the doors opened and they stepped inside.

As the elevator moved upward, she said, “I meant that I didn’t picture you as a jeep type of guy.”

“Really? What type of guy am I?”

She shrugged, and was pleased when the action didn’t cause her to waver a bit. “I don’t know. I guess I expected you to drive some flashy red sports car. Eye candy to draw in all those hot, vapid females.”

He met her gaze, lifting a brow. Had she noticed before what a lovely shade of blue his eyes were? Sort of a cross between a robin’s egg and a clear summer sky.

She licked her lips, swallowing hard in sudden awareness—of his handsome, masculine features . . . their close proximity . . . the growing throb deep within her sex.

“I don’t need a fancy car to attract women,” he said softly, his mouth only inches from her own. “And I’m not particularly interested in the kind of women who would be attracted to a fancy car.”

“Oh.”

The elevator came to a stop, whispering open, and
Dylan started forward. She moved with him, perfectly in sync, perfectly steady.

When they reached her door, she held out the arm that balanced her purse and tote, and Dylan took the initiative to dig inside, find her keys, and let them in. The apartment was silent and dark, but not pitch black. Across the room, the blinds had been left open, making the room partially visible in the glow of the moon and lights of the city.