Can't Fight This Feeling (16 page)

It would be unthinkable, except that at the moment he didn’t know how else to get beneath Angelica’s defenses. If Shay was right, it was his way to reach those shadowy places in Angelica. And, God help him, he wanted into those. He wanted to shed light there, in order to flush out her demons.

Damn his protective streak.

Somehow she’d exposed it. And though he cursed her for that, it didn’t make him any more able to ignore it.

* * *

A
NGELICA
HEARD
A
KEY
turn in the lock of her cottage’s front door and realized that this time Brett hadn’t bothered with knocking. From her place on the drop cloth covering the living room floor, she glared as he came in.

“I could have been taking a nap.”

“Saw you through the window,” he said, without a ripple in his neutral expression.

Once again, he appeared just out of the shower. His hair was damp, and the clean scent of soap carried through the air, reaching her even over the odor emanating from the open cans of paint and the carton of ice cream she’d set on a card table she’d found in a closet and covered with newspaper.

Brett approached, his eyes on the experiment she was conducting.

Planting her feet on the floor, she continued her offense. “Well, you still could have indicated your interest in chatting in the normal manner. Knuckles to wood—you recall that, right? It’s called knocking.”

“Told you, babe, men don’t ‘chat.’” He stopped on the other side of the square table and his gaze roamed over the containers. “What’s all this?”

“Returned paint.” Using a clean wooden stirrer, she indicated the cans that Glory had given her for free. “I’m mixing them to make my own custom color. Well, I’m trying it out, anyway.”

In a plastic bowl, she’d combined a couple of colors. Now she gave the concoction a stir.

Brett rubbed his hand over his chin. He hadn’t shaved, and she could hear the scratch of the bristles as he brushed his callous palm over them. The small of her back prickled as she imagined that work-roughened hand touching her there.

Then she had to swallow, hard, thinking of the whiskers surrounding his lips ghosting down her neck.

“I guess I have to ask about the ice cream.”

“I left out a half gallon of Neapolitan ice cream once and it melted. When I stirred it, the color was a dawn-tinged shade of light cocoa brown. If I can match it with real paint, it might look nice in the bedroom.” Reaching over, she gave the wooden spoon poking out of the carton a twist, folding the liquidy milk-and-sugar concoction.

He was shaking his head and fighting a smile. “You’re something.”

She lifted her chin. “You can take inspiration from anywhere.” Then she cleared her throat, anxious to return to her color-combining without his distracting presence. “Can I help you with something?”

“You trying to get rid of me, angel face?”

Duh. Because being around Brett was increasingly a trial. Kissing him hadn’t made him any less appealing. Reacting to his touch like a frightened fool didn’t mean he’d lost an ounce of attraction.

But it was torture that she couldn’t follow through with the desires he kindled inside her.

At the thought, she returned to stirring the paint, moving it around with such vigor that it slopped over the side, sloshing liquid on her wrist. Though she knew it wasn’t a disaster, hot pressure built at the back of her eyes. “I’ll never get this right,” she muttered, abandoning the stick in frustration.

“Relax, sweetheart.”

That’s what she couldn’t manage, no matter how much she wanted to be at ease in his arms, lose herself in his kiss, open herself to his touch. Setting her jaw, she directed her attention to the melting ice cream once more, grasping the wooden spoon to work at the soupy mass.

It didn’t look right to her now either, and she cursed it under her breath.

“Wow,” Brett said. “I’ve never seen you in such a temper.”

The warning look she sent him should burn. “It’s fiery.”

His lips twitched.

Aggravation leaped. The light in his gray eyes had turned them to silver and with amusement written all over his handsome face he appeared years younger. “Are you laughing at me?” she demanded.

He shook his head. “Laughing with you?” he asked, fakely hopeful.

“Nothing’s funny,” she hissed, and when he actually tried to cover a chuckle with a cough...it happened.

Yanking the spoon from the thawed ice cream, she flicked it toward his face, like a spasmodic witch casting a spell with her wand. Droplets of pinky-beige liquid landed on his forehead, his nose, his chin.

“Uh-oh,” he said.

Uh-oh
, she thought. He glanced down at the table and she swiped up the carton, holding it close to her chest.

“I’m in a mood,” she said. “Go away,” she added, pointing toward the door with her spoon. Another spray of ice cream landed on his shirt.
Oops.

He glanced down at it, then took a step forward. “Angelica...” His tongue made a tsking sound.

Shuffling back, she dipped her spoon in the carton. “I’m armed,” she said, swirling the wooden handle as if reloading it. “You don’t want to mess with me.”

He took another step, rounding the table between them. “I have three younger sisters. I don’t scare easily.”

Her heart was pounding too fast and her blood was rushing through her veins, sweet and bubbly like soda pop. Without a first thought, let alone a second, she flung a spoonful of the viscous liquid in his direction. It landed in his hair and she gasped, then scurried in reverse even as a wild giggle climbed her throat.

Brett kept coming. She managed one more sloppy sling of ice cream before he wrenched the carton from her curled arm and the spoon from her hand. For an instant, she froze, then she darted forward to reclaim the utensil, getting her fingers around the sticky tip.

Her move must have surprised him, because one tug and it was hers. Dancing back, she crowed in triumph.

“Sweetheart,” he said, a smile playing at his mouth as he weighed the carton in one big palm. “You forget, I have the ammo.” He dipped a hand inside and his fingers came out, covered with ice cream ooze. Without hesitation, he flicked them. Drops landed on her face and in her hair.

She gasped.

“Play with fire, gonna get burned.” His hand returned to the carton.

With a squeal, she prepared to run. On a lunge, he snagged her with his hand, his sticky fingers curling around her biceps.

“We’re just starting to have fun,” he said, drawing her close.

He was smiling and she was breathing hard, her gaze following the carton as he lifted it over her head. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said, between pants.

“If it keeps you from thinking so hard, I very much would,” he said. He tipped it so the runny ice cream drew dangerously close to the rim.

“Really, you wouldn’t,” she said, staring at the foamy liquid, then at him.

His eyes laughed. “What’ll you give me if I don’t?”

And because she needed to take back control of the moment, she popped onto her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.

He accepted the kiss, his grip only slightly tightening around her arm. When she landed on her heels, it was to notice the carton still hung over her head...

Like her inability to have a normal sexual encounter with him.

“You’re thinking again,” he warned. The carton tilted deeper. On instinct, she leaped for it, but he was faster, lifting it higher. Then he pressed his body into hers, moving her backward until her shoulder blades thumped into the wall and she was pinned, the two of them torso to torso.

“Brett,” she protested, not sure what his manhandling was leading to. “I’m sticky. There’s ice cream on my face. I think we’re fair and square.”

“Not even close,” he said. And with both hands now free, his fingers went back in the carton. Two came out, covered with melted cream.

She shrank back. “No.”

He smiled. “Yes,” he said, and he drew them along her eyebrows, then down her nose. Then he bent his head. “Sweet,” he murmured, his mouth following the sugary path. “So sweet.”

This time, when she trembled, it wasn’t a response to an ugly past incident. It was a reaction to Brett’s lips on her skin. She closed her eyes, relishing the sensation, maybe more so because she worried that at any second the old memory would grab her like a mugger in a dark alley.

“Stay with me, babe,” he murmured against her cheek. Then he lifted his mouth so he could watch himself dip into the ice cream once again and paint her lips with the liquid. When his mouth found hers, the tackiness of the sweetness glued them together, until he used his tongue to lick it all away.

Her head swam, and she let it rest on the wall behind her as he nipped at her jawline. His lips trailed down her neck, his whiskers scratching delicately. Her nipples beaded, their tightness almost painful. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and for an embarrassed instant she wondered if he could tell.

Then she didn’t have to ponder any longer because he’d palmed her breast. As she squirmed, caught between the wall and his heavy body, he groaned, and bit her shoulder.

Face burning, body quivering, she glanced down at his hand, the thumb pressing the beaded tip she could clearly see beneath the old, paint-smeared T-shirt. “You’re getting ice cream on my clothes,” she told him, as if dressed in silk.

He glanced up and caught her eyes, one brow winging high. “’Spose we should take them off then.”

She shrugged, as if adrenaline wasn’t making her feel as if she’d inhaled helium. Her toes curled as if she was standing on a cliff and about to dive. “’Spose.”

His grin flashed. “Go, girl.”

The brief praise added an additional layer of warmth to already-heated skin. Her belly twitched as he found the hem of her shirt and yanked upward. It was gone in an instant, and she froze, her pretend insouciance gone.

If he realized her mood change, he ignored it. “Hold this,” he said, thrusting the melted ice cream into her hands. Then he drew off his own shirt.

Oh, God.
It was his second baring for her. For
her
. She’d ogled him shirtless many times before, but this was for her pleasure. And it did, it pleased her, as she ran her gaze over the strong column of his neck, across his collarbone and heavy shoulders, down the slight mounds of his pecs and the rippled muscles of his abs. His body hair was light, blond, but there was a dark brown sprinkling of it below his belly button, leading to territory hidden by his jeans.

She could look forever.

Slowly, he held his arms away from his body. “You want to play?”

Her gaze flew to his.
Play?

“Nothing wrong with fun and messy,” he said, a gleam in his eyes.

“No?” But the look on his face was giving her permission for anything. Everything. Excitement surged through her veins, more bubbly and sweet.

“You like to paint?” He nodded at the ice cream carton. “Paint me.”

Her hand clenched, denting the soft sides of the cardboard. Inside, the mixture was completely thawed. Warm, even. Warm enough not to pucker his nipple if she touched it with a dab.

It contracted before she even brushed it with her forefinger.

He drew in air, a sharp, audible sound that set another match to her blood. Then she made contact with the hard point, bathing it in sticky liquid.

Leaning in, she tongued it away.

His body tensed, and he felt bigger than before...and, strangely, less scary. She affected him.

Like he affected her.

Glancing up, she took another finger of melted cream and dabbed it on his other nipple, then drew a line down the center of his rib cage to his belly button. His fingers curled into fists.

“Relax,” she whispered, feeling whole and wicked and womanly. Then she sucked his nipple into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the hard point until his fingers dug into her hair. Moving her mouth, she tasted his skin, licking away the line of cream until she was half-bent and she’d reached denim.

His hand jumped free of her hair as she curled her fingertips into the waistband of his jeans. She smiled to herself. He’d never insist on anything she didn’t want to give.

So take
, she directed herself, popping the button.

“Angel face,” he whispered.

“Hold this,” she ordered, pushing the carton against his belly. “Both hands.”

Then she dropped to her knees. Angelica could hardly believe herself. But this was
play
and
fun
, he’d said that, and though the ice cream was sticky and crazy, the only real mess would be the one that disrupted her exploration if she thought of things besides Brett’s sculpted body, his iron control, his...

She stared at the column of flesh she’d revealed by parting the denim and pushing it down along with a pair of navy blue boxers.

“Angel face—” he started.

His words ended abruptly when she sucked the head into her mouth.