Tangled Up in Love (22 page)

At that, his cock gave a mighty jerk and shot up about forty-five degrees. She chuckled and slid forward to trap the growing appendage between their two bodies. His hands shot out to grip her hips and hold her even closer.

“Have you got a hat?” he asked. “Or maybe some boots and spurs.”

Once again, keen disappointment washed over her at her sorely lacking wardrobe. If she spent much more time with this man, she might just have to find a local costume shop and stock up on some tried-and-true favorites. A cowgirl outfit, a dominatrix outfit, maybe a cute little French maid uniform.

She’d never felt compelled to do that sort of thing for any other man, and she
shouldn’t
want to do it for
this one. But with his hands on her rear, his cock pulsing between them, and a look of hot, sexual awareness in his eyes, she almost did.

“Sorry,” she told him with a small shake of her head, giving him no clue of the thoughts muddling her brain, “you’re going to have to settle for me in the buff.”

“This is something I think I can handle.”

He straightened away from the back of the sofa, bringing his chest into contact with the tips of her breasts. His hands squeezed her buttocks, then slid along the sides of her waist until they reached the undersides of those breasts. He cupped them and moved so that the solid plane and wiry hair of his chest tickled her nipples, which were already beaded but tightened even more at the contact.

“I won’t be sure, though, until after this bronco riding thing you’ve teased me with.” He lifted his head to nip her chin and then her lips. “Care to saddle up and show me what it’s all about?”

Boy, howdy, was she. His mouth was hypnotizing her. His hands at her breasts were sending currents of desire coursing through every cell of her body.

Heat pooled at her center, and her inner muscles pulsed with need. She wanted nothing more than to grab his joystick, slide down on the solid, substantial length, and work them both into a lather.

But she held herself back, concentrating on her breathing and the axiom that good things come to those who wait. She didn’t just want good, though; she was holding out for freaking fantastic.

Tipping her head to the side, she narrowed her eyes and said, “That sounds a bit too much like you being in charge. You aren’t trying to take over, are you?”

“No, ma’am. Not if it means the difference between getting inside you and going home with a raging hard-on.”

She smirked, running her hands along the sides of his head to grip his hair.

“Good answer.”

Then she lowered her mouth and kissed him.

“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” Dylan said.

He was sitting on her bed, back propped on pillows that were stacked against the brass headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was still blessedly naked, but the twist of her snow-white sheets covered him from waist to midthigh.

Ronnie was tucked up to his side, her legs curled beneath her. She was wearing his earlier-discarded shirt, buttoned all the way down, but only halfway up her chest.

After a rather steamy session in the living room that had left her limp as a dishrag, he’d played Prince Gallant by picking her up, carrying her into the bedroom, and setting her carefully on the bed. They’d lain together for a while in the dark silence, and then Dylan had gotten it into his head that he still deserved a knitting lesson.

A naked knitting lesson.

She was surprised by how much he’d gotten done on his project since she’d last seen it. What “it” was, she wasn’t entirely sure, but the length of black yarn still seemed to be coming along well.

Though the ratty, mangled end was still there, his stitches were becoming neater and more uniform, and he seemed to be more confident about what he was doing.

“You know what helped me?” he said.

“What?”

She was plastered to his side, her right breast pressed to his left bicep, her right arm draped over his shoulders and back. Every once in a while, she’d reach out to aid his motions, help him with a stitch or a yarn over, but otherwise he was doing fine on his own.

She didn’t know whether to be pleased or concerned over that, so she chose to simply ignore it for the time being.

“Realizing that knitting is a lot like sex.”

It took a minute for his words to sink in, but even then, she didn’t think she’d heard him correctly.

“How in God’s name do you make a connection between sex and knitting?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, number one, I’m a guy.” He tipped his head in her direction and gave her one of his charming, boy-next-door grins.

“And number two, look at it.” He lifted the yarn and needles in his hands, drawing her attention to the long line of his fingers, the light dusting of hair along his knuckles, the firm competence as he looped the soft black yarn around the sturdy white needle.

Okay, so maybe she was starting to see it. Her skin tingled just watching him, and knowing what other delights those big, strong hands were capable of.

“You’ve got your long, hard stick slipping into the soft, open hole of the yarn. Then back out. Then in. Then out. Then in.” He said it all very slowly, using the
yarn and needles and those bronzed fingers to illustrate his words.

She had to swallow twice before she felt steady enough to say, “I guess I see your point.”

“Yep. As soon as I started thinking of knitting as just another form of making love and realized the whole thing just required a bit of finesse, it all came together for me.”

“I see that. After you lose the challenge, maybe you could write a book about knitting just for men.
How to Get Your Yarn Off in Ten Easy Steps.
”

“I’m not going to lose the challenge,” he retorted, “but I do like the book idea. It needs a better title, though.
The Joy of Knitting,
maybe.”

“Or
Sex and Stitches
.”

“Knit Your Way to the Perfect Orgasm.”

“Two Needles Are Better than One.”

“Hey.” His brows drew together, and he gave her a disgruntled look.

She shrugged, feigning recalcitrance even though she was fully enjoying their little sparring match. “It’s a good title.”

“Not as good as
Sex and the Single Knitter
.”

“Oooh, that is a good one,” she agreed. “You could include all kinds of tips for flying solo. Just a man and his knitting, home alone night after night, the motion of the yarn and needles getting him all hot and horny.”

“Are you implying that a man who knits must be lonely and lacking companionship with the opposite sex?”

He didn’t bother looking at her this time, but continued his slow, deliberate movements with the needles and yarn.

“Because if you were, I would be forced to point out that the same might be said of women who knit.”

“Oh, really? Is that why you were so overjoyed when I publicly challenged you to learn to knit? Because you were eager to show the world what a manly pastime it is?”

“Yep, that’s it exactly.”

She gave an unladylike snort. “Right.”

“It is. See, knitting might have been considered a women-only hobby once upon a time, but now that I’ve taken it up, I’ve obviously proven it’s a leisure pursuit that crosses the gender line.”

With a chuckle, she said, “I can see how you managed to finagle your job at the
Herald
. You’re very good at piling on the bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit. I’m showing people that real men have needles and they know how to use them.”

“I can definitely see that on the dust jacket of your book.”

He gave a solemn nod before the room fell into several minutes of heavy silence, the only sounds those of their breathing and the soft click of his needles stitch after stitch.

She didn’t know why their easy back-and-forth had suddenly come to an end, but now a heavy tension seemed to hang in the air, stealing any chance of further friendly repartee.

When Dylan did speak, though, she almost wished he’d kept his mouth shut and left them in strange but companionable silence.

“I’ve been thinking about that discussion we were having earlier,” he murmured.

Her legs were falling asleep, so she squirmed a bit
on the mattress to find a more comfortable position. “Men who knit getting laid more often than those who don’t?”

“No, although I’m sure there have been studies done to prove that that’s true.”

She nodded but didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in her voice. “Oh, I’m sure. That’s why you see all those yarn groupies hanging around outside craft stores.”

He made a face but didn’t rise to the bait. “No, I mean what we were talking about way earlier, when I first got here.”

The reminder made her tense. In the past few hours, she’d done an admirable job of blocking out the mood she’d been in when he’d arrived and what had caused it. She’d especially been blocking the fact that she’d cried and wailed and all but had a nervous breakdown right in front of him.

Was this the point when he’d throw it back in her face? Rub it in and start heckling her, or bribing her with the threat of making her private life public?

If so, she seriously thought she might maim him with his own knitting needles. Tie him up with that black yarn and spend a couple of hours treating him like a life-sized voodoo doll.

Heart pounding in her chest, she quietly asked, “What about it?”

“Well, if you ever tell anyone I said this, I’ll of course deny it, but you’re a damn good writer. Sometimes, I think you could write rings around me.”

She blinked, remaining so still, she wasn’t even sure she was breathing. Never in a million years would she have expected a statement like that to pass Dylan Stone’s lips. Not even after what they’d shared.

Hot, sweaty, teeth-rattling monkey sex was one thing.

Complimenting a rival journalist was something else entirely.

She felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes, and then felt them prick harder as the oddity of being moved by his words caused even stronger emotions to well up.

Normally, her patent response would have been
Damn straight
, and then perhaps a tirade about all the reasons she should have gotten his job, and all the reasons he was underqualified for the position. But she couldn’t seem to rouse the proper level of ire or disdain for either.

Instead she managed a shaky “Thank you” after two failed attempts and one embarrassing clearing of her throat.

“You’re welcome.” If he noticed the threadiness of her tone or her statue-like stiffness at his side, he didn’t let on.

Setting his knitting aside, he shifted on the mattress so that they were facing each other. Her arm fell from his shoulders and she moved a little away, only to have him hitch closer once again.

Meeting her gaze, he said, “I’m not sure if you realize this, but people
love
your column in the
Sentinel
. Women, especially. It’s hip and edgy, sometimes laugh-out-loud funny, and offers practical advice for the city’s residents.”

The only thing she could think to say was
thank you,
but she was afraid of sounding like a broken record, so she said nothing.

He lifted a hand to stroke her hair, the other rubbing gently along the fabric of his shirt that covered her arm.

“My point,” he continued, “is that you might not see that as being big enough or important enough, but it is. It’s a reflection of you, something that comes to you naturally and that you have a real talent for. And money and prestige aren’t everything. Sometimes just having a job that pays the bills, lets you live comfortably, maybe help your family or splurge on yourself once in a while, is enough. You don’t have to kill yourself to make and do more, more, more. You don’t have to make yourself sick worrying about what you’ll do in five or ten years.”

She understood what he was telling her, but she’d spent so long worrying over every penny, feeling like no matter how much she earned, it was
never
enough, that she wasn’t sure she could believe him.

She had a stable, well-paying job, one that would leave most people living a contented, stress-free life. But still she clipped coupons, bought her clothes and furniture and tableware at secondhand stores, turned in her recyclables for cash. She read newspapers and magazines at work so she wouldn’t have to pay for her own subscriptions. She drove an ancient Chrysler that still looked good but had well over a hundred thousand miles on it because it had been considerably cheaper than newer models. And she’d never owned a VCR, a DVD player, or even a stereo because it seemed like a waste of money when she could simply watch basic cable or listen to the radio.

Most people would probably consider her antiquated or out of touch.

She considered herself somewhere between downright cheap and shrewdly frugal.

But when people grew up the way she had, the fear
stayed with them, and they would do whatever it took to avoid living at that level of poverty again.

She’d never discussed this part of her life with anyone else before. Not even her parents. But for some reason, she felt safe talking about it with Dylan. He was being so kind and accepting, and seemed to be genuinely trying to help.

Though it nicked her pride to put voice to her thoughts, she knew that if anyone would have answers for her, it would be Dylan. In so many ways, he was a mirror image of her. The other side of her coin.

They were different in a lot of ways, but they were alike in many, too. They were both stubborn and arrogant and ambitious and competitive. They were both damn good writers, attractive, and fantastic in bed.

Hey, if a girl was being honest with herself, then she might as well be honest about everything.

And where they differed . . . him being laid-back while she was sometimes incredibly uptight . . . well, maybe they could help each other. Maybe she could convince him to lean into certain aspects of his life more, and he could teach her how to relax and stop obsessing about every little thing.

“So,” she said slowly, using the tip of one perfectly rounded, paint-tipped finger to draw patterns on the bit of sheet that covered his upper thigh, “hypothetically speaking, if one wanted to loosen her grip on the purse strings slightly, how would one go about that?”