Getting Hotter (7 page)

Christ. You’d think he was about to face a pack of rabid dogs rather than two harmless six-year-olds.

Though come to think of it, he’d prefer hanging out with rabid dogs.

Grow a pair, buddy. If you wanna fuck the mom, you’ve gotta be nice to the kiddies.

Only in rare circumstances did he silence his inner man-slut the way he did now. Nice to the kids? Shit, the mere thought of it had him reconsidering his pursuit of Miranda, something he’d invested months’ worth of effort into.

But he didn’t like kids. As politically incorrect as it might be, it was common knowledge to all who knew him, which was why no one expected him to make an appearance at Lieutenant Commander Becker’s house for any Baby Sadie-related events or asked him to babysit John Garrett or Will Charleston’s kids.

Man, he’d never thought he’d say it, but thank God for Dylan. Mr. Awesome had come to the rescue like Mary fucking Poppins flying in with her umbrella, promptly turning a couple of frowns upside down and saving the day.

Seth had seen the gratitude shining on Miranda’s face, and for a second, he’d experienced a burst of envy. No way could he have made those kids laugh like that. If you wanted him to save the day, put an MP5 in his hands and point him in the direction of a terrorist. He wasn’t the kind of man who brought smiles to children’s faces.

A soft knock on the door jarred him from a train of thought that was growing more and more unsettling by the second.

“Yeah?” he called brusquely.

The door opened and Miranda poked her head in. Her expression reflected both concern and irritation. “Dylan said you might have some clothes you can loan me. He’s going to throw our stuff in the dryer.”

“Yeah, I do.” His voice sounded gravelly, so he cleared his throat, adding, “You need something for the rugrats too?”

She stepped into the room, shaking her head. “No, they changed into a couple of Dylan’s T-shirts.” Her lips quirked. “They’re practically drowning in them. Your roommate’s a big guy.”

Seth’s jaw tensed. The note of appreciation in Miranda’s voice raised his hackles and made him take back every nice thought he’d had about Dylan in the past few minutes.

“The big guy couldn’t spare something for you to wear?” Seth said with a bite to his tone.

“He made a cryptic comment about how it wouldn’t be appropriate.” She rolled her eyes. “I get the feeling he thinks it would be treading on your territory if he lets me wear his clothes.”

Damn it. Now he had no choice but to think good thoughts about Dylan again. He even mentally awarded his roommate a gold star for knowing that Seth would absolutely murder him if a single item of Dylan’s clothing so much as touched Miranda’s skin.

“Which is ridiculous,” she went on, locking her gaze with his. “Because you don’t own me, and therefore I can wear whatever I want, regardless of who it belongs to.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But tonight?” He strode over to his closet. “Tonight you’re wearing
my
shirt, babe.”

“I hate it when you call me babe.”

He shot her a grin over his shoulder. “No, you don’t.”

“So now you’re an expert on what I like?”

“Yep.” He tugged a flannel button-down off one of the hangers, then handed it to her.

Miranda reluctantly accepted the garment. She ran her fingers over the well-worn material before looking at him in surprise. “This is soft. And it looks worn.” She lifted one eyebrow. “I thought you were only allowed to wear black. You know, because you’re so darn cool.”

“I can make anything look cool, even flannel. And I don’t only wear black.” To illustrate, he gestured to the fresh pair of gray sweats and white wifebeater he’d changed into.

The way Miranda’s hazel eyes rested on his chest a little too long didn’t go unnoticed.

Neither did the fact that his confidence had returned with full force the second Miranda’s kids were out of sight.

He walked over to the simple wooden dresser under his window and grabbed a pair of black track pants from the bottom drawer, along with thick wool socks. “The pants will be baggy, but there’s a drawstring so at least they won’t fall off.” He paused. “You want some boxers too?”

Her cheeks took on a pinkish hue. “No, it’s okay. Just the pants will do.”

His groin tightened as he wondered whether she planned on going commando. From there, the most mouthwatering image flashed in his mind, one involving Miranda’s bare sex, his track pants, and a whole lotta friction.

“What’s wrong?”

He met her concerned eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“You got this look on your face, like you were in pain. Are you all right?”

A choked laugh slipped out. “I’m fine.”

“What’s so funny?” Suspicion colored her tone.

“You’re completely oblivious to the effect you have on me, aren’t you?”

She let out a startled breath. “What?”

Releasing a breath of his own, he eliminated the distance between them, lifting one arm over Miranda’s shoulder so he could close the bedroom door. Her eyes widened at his nearness, and her cheeks turned redder.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Giving us some privacy.”

Her slender throat dipped as she swallowed. “
We
don’t need privacy.
I
wouldn’t mind some, though, so I can change out of these damp clothes.”

“That can wait a few minutes.” He locked his gaze with hers. “You asked if I was in pain. Well, I am.”

She blinked in surprise. “But you just said—”

Before she could finish, he grabbed her hand and placed it directly over the bulge in his sweatpants.

Miranda gasped, her mouth falling open. “What are you…oh my God. Jesus, Seth!”

And yet for all the lady’s protests, she didn’t make a single move to yank her hand away.

Seth’s pulse kicked up a notch, his cock growing even harder beneath Miranda’s palm. She didn’t stroke him. Didn’t cup or caress or move her fingers in the slightest. She just kept her hand over the erection straining against his sweats, her lips parted, her pupils dilated.

“Feel that?” he murmured.

Her gaze slowly met his. She looked almost mesmerized as she nodded.

“That’s what I’ve been walking around with since the moment you moved to town, baby.”

“Seth…” Reluctance crept into her voice. “Stop. Just…stop.”

And then her palm moved. A fraction of an inch. A torturous glide over the hard ridge of his cock.

He groaned softly. “Do that again.”

Her fingers froze. Her expression conveyed shock, as if she truly hadn’t realized what she was doing.

“This is insane,” she mumbled, and then, to his extreme disappointment, she withdrew her hand.

But the sexual awareness zipping back and forth between them refused to dissipate. It thickened the air and made his skin burn with anticipation. Christ, he wanted this woman so badly he couldn’t think straight anymore. Every time he saw her he turned into a sex-crazed caveman whose sole purpose in life was to claim his female.

His gaze focused on her mouth, that sexy mouth he’d been fantasizing about for so long.

“One taste.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice full of gravel.

“W-what?” she stammered.

“Let me have one taste. One kiss.” He brought his hand to her mouth and swept his thumb over her plump bottom lip. The breath she hissed out warmed his fingers. “Please, Miranda.”

Oh Christ, he was actually begging.

Begging
to kiss a woman.

If his entire body wasn’t overcome with pure agony, he might have been disgusted with himself, but at the moment, he couldn’t focus on anything other than Miranda. The intoxicating scent of her, vanilla and roses and something soft and feminine. The way her long, damp hair curled at the ends. The fullness of her breasts beneath her T-shirt.

He stroked her lower lip again, then let out another groan when her tongue came out to taste the pad of his thumb. She looked as surprised as he was by her actions.

But he wasn’t complaining. Hell no. He just capitalized on that tiny sign of surrender by cupping her chin and lowering his head to take possession of her mouth.

The kiss rivaled the storm that raged outside the house—powerful and all-consuming. Her lips were soft, warm, and he could feel them trembling as he rubbed his mouth over hers in a fleeting caress. There it was, his one taste, and it wasn’t enough, not by a long shot. Miranda must have agreed, because she didn’t pull away, didn’t protest when he coaxed her lips open with his tongue and licked his way inside.

She let out the sexiest little moan he’d ever heard when their tongues met. He swallowed the sound and angled his head to deepen the kiss, letting their tongues swirl and explore.

The only contact between them was their fused mouths and his hand resting lightly on her jaw. Her arms didn’t come around his neck. His other hand didn’t explore her sweet curves. Their lower bodies didn’t collide.

And yet it was the most erotic kiss of his entire life.

Disappointment slammed into him when Miranda abruptly tore her mouth away. Her hazel eyes shone with arousal and uncertainty, and she was breathing hard, her chest heaving.

“There,” she said. “You got your taste.”

He knew she was trying to sound casual, but her wobbly voice betrayed her.

“And you got yours,” he answered, lifting his eyebrows in challenge. “So let’s hear it.”

To her credit, she met his gaze head-on. “Hear what?”

“Your speech about how you didn’t feel anything, the kiss was no big deal, it doesn’t change your mind about going to bed with me, et cetera, et cetera.”

Miranda sighed. “I’m many things, Seth, but I’m not a liar. I
did
feel something, and trust me that kiss
was
a big deal. It was a huge deal, actually.”

She might as well have pulled out a two-by-four and smashed him in the gut, that was how shocked he was by her frank admission. Pure triumph soared through him—only to fizzle out like a wet candle when Miranda kept going.

“But you’re right. It doesn’t change my mind about going to bed with you.” Before he could respond, she spun around and grabbed hold of the doorknob.

“Miranda.”

She went still. “What?” she asked without turning.

“What the hell is it going to take for you to give in to this?” The echo of defeat in his voice surprised him as much as the next question he posed. “What do I have to do to win you over?”

Her back relaxed. Slightly. There was no mistaking her ironic tone as she glanced over her shoulder and said, “For starters? Be nicer to my kids.” Then she slid out the door.

Seth listened to the sound of her footsteps, heard the door of the hall bathroom open and close. He scrubbed both hands through his hair, still feeling winded from that explosive kiss, and now apprehensive, thanks to Miranda’s parting words.

Be nicer to my kids.

Fuck, he should’ve known it would come down to that. He couldn’t blame her, either. Whether he liked it or not, Miranda was a mother. Age-wise, she was young—only twenty-four, if he recalled correctly—but in terms of maturity, she was light-years ahead of other women her age. She took her responsibilities seriously, he knew that, and he was beginning to understand that she was the kind of woman who didn’t do a single thing without thinking it through first.

Which was damn frustrating, because, really, who needed to put this much thought into a casual fling? It wasn’t that difficult—chemistry, sex, good-bye.

In this case, he’d probably need to add “and let’s stay friends” to that list, just in case his mother ever found out; Missy would kick his ass if she discovered he’d pulled his usual love-’em-and-leave-’em act on one of her former dancers. But he had no problem remaining friends with Miranda. He liked her, and they got along. Well, when she wasn’t rejecting him left and right.

So yeah, he could do the whole friendship thing—
after
he’d had his fill of her in bed.

Be nicer to my kids.

Fine. If it meant finally satisfying his craving for Miranda Breslin, he could totally manage a few cordial words when he was around her children.

Setting his jaw in determination, he left the bedroom and marched into the kitchen, where he found Miranda’s twins sitting at the rectangular table. There was a tall glass of milk in front of each child and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies between them.

Dylan, who was grabbing a beer from the fridge, glanced up at Seth’s arrival. “Want one?” he asked.

Seth nodded and accepted the bottle of Bud. As he twisted off the cap and took a sip, he felt two pairs of eyes watching him. After a second, he shifted his gaze to the table and returned the stare.

No denying that Miranda’s kids were cute. They were carbon copies of their mother, hair the same shade of dark brown, skin the same olive tone, except their eyes were chocolate-brown rather than hazel. The girl exuded a shrewd sort of perceptiveness, her expression more shuttered than her twin’s, whose face was very easy to read.