Author: Jill Shalvis

“That’s a really bad idea.”

“Why?” she asked. “Haven’t you ever pulled a drunken all-nighter?”

“Sure, when I was a teenager.”

“Was this before or after the flaming bags of poop?”

“After.”

She grinned. “Hard to believe. You seem so…”

“If you say sweet,” he warned, “I will get out the cuffs.”

She snorted again, and he pulled her into his lap.

He gripped her ass, feeling the drying paint on the soft material of her skirt. “Hope you didn’t steal this, too.”

She wriggled a little, and the hem slipped up her thighs to her hips, giving a nice view of her black panties. He slid a finger over the silk, stopping short when he heard her wheeze. “Chloe.”

“I’m okay.”

Suddenly very sober, he slid out from beneath her. “No, you’re not.”

“Dammit! One little asthma attack and now you’re scared of me.” She pushed up to her feet and staggered to the refrigerator. She came back with two more beers and offered him one.

He looked into her eyes and beyond the fresh bravado saw unease. Whatever she said, however she acted, she was no more ready than him to push their luck.

“I thought we were sharing.” He took both bottles from her and put one back. She snatched the other one and opened it, even though he hadn’t intended on doing so. She took a sip, and he reclaimed the bottle, downing half the beer in one gulp so she wouldn’t.

Things got hazy after that.

At some point, Chloe reasoned that since there were no overnight guests at the inn tonight, she was free and clear. She texted her sisters that she’d gone camping and wouldn’t be back until morning. And though she and Sawyer kept painting, nothing seemed to get accomplished.

This was probably because Chloe kept stopping to touch him.

Or maybe that was him touching her.

Yeah, probably it was him touching her. He couldn’t seem to control it. He, of the famed self-control, couldn’t stop and he didn’t want to.

Chapter 16

“Multitasking means screwing up

several things at once.”

Chloe Traeger

All Chloe knew was that one minute she was blinking sleepily at their handiwork on Sawyer’s walls, and in the next, they were on his sole piece of living room furniture—his huge, comfy couch. He was lying lengthwise, and she appeared to be playing the role of his blanket, sprawled over the top of him like she belonged there.

She had no idea how much time had gone by, but it was still dark outside. She lifted her head and met his gaze, and there came the sort of timeless moment that you read about but never really experience. It’d have probably been more classically romantic if Sawyer hadn’t had a possessive hand palming each of her butt cheeks, his fingers meeting in the middle, running up and down the Great Divide, but she’d never been all that into the classics.

Their faces were so close that the tips of their noses brushed, and she hoped like hell that he was extremely far-sighted because she was pretty sure she was a complete wreck.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, reading her mind.

Chloe ducked her head and dropped it to his chest, but he fisted his hand in her hair at the nape of her neck and tugged until she looked at him again. “You are,” he said in his brook-no-argument cop voice.

Actually, he was the beautiful one. Not in a pretty boy way, he was far too rugged and weathered for pretty. But there was an absolute beauty to his tough, edgy exterior, and she soaked him up. He always moved with such innate grace and ease that she tended to forget what a big guy he really was.

But his poise was gone tonight, which made her smile dopily. She’d relaxed him, which was quite a feat. “We should have a paint party every night until your house is done.”

He took his gaze off her and stared at the walls around them, seeming a little befuddled. It was such a shock to see his expression anything other than his usual imperturbable calm that she looked around, too, and winced. “Do the walls seem to be missing a few spots to you?”

He looked at her, then down at himself. “I think we’re wearing the missing paint.”

His expression cracked her up. “I’ve never seen you all discombobulated before,” she said.

“I’m not discombobulated.”

But he was. His hair was standing on end, cemented into place by some paint that might or might not have come from her fingers. His strong, lean jaw was dark with a full day’s growth. And his eyes, those mesmerizing warm chocolate eyes, were glossy. But most telling of all was the adorably sexy, bad-boy smile on his face. She grabbed his face and gave him a smacking kiss. “You’re so cute.”

“Cute.” He repeated this slowly, like what she said didn’t compute.

At some point, he’d stripped out of his shirt and gun. Both were on the floor next to the couch, both covered in paint. She had no memory of how any of that had occurred but suspected she was at fault. She really wished she remembered the stripping off of his shirt, but between the wine and beer and her silly low tolerance for booze, she wasn’t exactly clearheaded. “You are cute,” she said with conviction.

“Take it back.”

Sawyer looked very serious with his paint highlights, and she struggled not to laugh. “No can do, Officer…Cute.”

His grip tightened on her, and he nipped her bottom lip. She heard a ragged moan and realized it was her own. And that her hands had slid into his hair to hold his face to hers.

“Can’t do this,” he said against her mouth.

“Why?”

“We’re drunk.”

“Not that drunk.”

“So you’re completely aware of the fact that you’re grinding against me?”

Yikes. She went still with great effort. Then sat up and carefully got off him. It took her a moment to find her sea legs, and she put her hands out for balance.

“Hey,” Sawyer said. “Come back.” His voice was deep and steady. A command. She hated commands, but this one suited her. But first, she took a good, long look at him lying there, chest bare, abs hard and flat, jeans slung low. He was so big and bad…

Bad for her, she remembered. She just couldn’t quite remember why. “You just said we weren’t going to have a drunk make-out.”

“We’re not having drunk sex.” He tugged her back over him. Hard arms encased her, and two hands slid beneath her skirt to grope her ass. “Drunk making out is absolutely allowed,” he said against her mouth. “In fact, it’s required.”

She was smiling when he kissed her. He tasted like the beer they’d shared, smelled like wet paint, and felt like warm promise. It was the best kiss she’d ever had. They stopped to breathe for a minute, and she set her head down on his chest. It was the last thing she remembered until some odd and obnoxious pounding sounded between her ears. When it stopped, she sighed and snuggled into the deliciously heated blanket beneath her…

Then came the sound of a door opening, and a low, shocked “Jesus Christ” woke her all the way up. She opened her eyes to Ford and Jax standing in the doorway.

And behind them was…daylight.

This caused her a moment of confusion. She wasn’t at home in her cottage. She was still at Sawyer’s, and in fact, was still on the couch, wrapped up in him.

And covered in paint.

So was Sawyer. He didn’t open his eyes, but he did tighten his grip on her ass. The man definitely had a thing about her hind quarters.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?” Sawyer said to Jax and Ford without looking. “Besides breaking and entering.”

“No breaking. Just entering,” Ford said with a laugh in his voice.

“We were supposed to meet at eight to go sailing,” Jax said. “Then when you didn’t answer your phone…”

Sawyer sighed, then managed to crack one eye and looked at Chloe. “You okay?”

Nodding, she pushed upright and staggered to her feet. When she got her first full-body view of Sawyer, she gasped.

He tilted his head and looked down at himself. He had fingerprints on each pec. A trail of paint across his perfect, washboard abs.

And a full handprint on his crotch.

To his credit, he didn’t so much as blink. But Chloe clapped a hand to her mouth to hold in her horrified laugh. She had a few handprints on herself as well. Big handprints, most notably on her breasts.

Ford was wearing a shit-eating grin. Jax looked as if he was trying not to laugh, but he busted up and had to fake a cough.

Sawyer sat up.

Jax, not being a stupid man, backed away.

Not Ford. He pulled out his cell phone, accessed the camera, and aimed it at Sawyer’s crotch. “Hold still, man.”

Sawyer got to his feet and shoved Jax out the front door, then turned to Ford, who risked life and limb to take the pic before stepping back over the threshold. “Guess you won’t be coming with—”

Sawyer shut the door, locked it, and turned to Chloe. “Sorry about the idiots.”

“Yes, well, they’re not the only idiots.” She put her hands to her head, testing. Still on. That was good. Carefully, she took stock of herself. Everything seemed to be in working order. She looked at Sawyer. “I’m going to assume that since your pants are still on, I didn’t get much farther than feeling you up. Right?”

Sawyer went still, his eyes serious. “You don’t remember last night?”

“Well, I didn’t get lucky. Or I’d have had another asthma attack.” She smiled.

He didn’t. “I took advantage of you.” He sounded extremely unhappy about this.

“Look, if anyone took advantage of anyone, it was me, Sawyer. I mean, look at you.”

They both looked at his body decor, specifically at the hand on his crotch. Some good humor crossed his face at that. “You are pretty damn hard to say no to,” he said.

She bent for her purse and inhaler. “And yet people manage all the time.” Crap, she really hated when her mouth disconnected from her brain. She slipped into her shoes and turned to the door, still kicking herself for that revealing statement.