“Quite a week. Quite a month, now that I think about it.” Janie scratched Olive’s ears again, staring off into the night sky.
He blew out a breath. The whole thing was like pretending the mud-covered elephant in the room wasn’t there. “He’s an asshole, Janie. Probably always has been. You must know that.”
Janie nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
“It had nothing to do with you.”
She nodded again, then shrugged. “It had something to do with me, but not much. And whatever happened to me was nothing compared to what happened to Lars.”
Pete groaned, leaning back against the step. “Would you believe I forgot about that part of it—just for a minute?”
Olive stretched out, resting her muzzle on Janie’s foot.
“We never were all that…serious, Otto and me.” She narrowed her eyes, staring up at a streetlight. “We’ve dated for a couple of months, but I always knew he wasn’t going to be The One.”
“Yeah?” Pete leaned back on his elbows. He wasn’t the kind of man people shared confidences with as a rule, but at least he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
“People in town really look up to him, though. When this gets out, it’s going to be a blow to the town’s pride. They’ll probably find a way to blame Sherice. Or the Toleffson family. Or me. Probably me.”
Janie stroked Olive’s ears. Olive was the one who was really making out in this situation, Pete reflected. “How can they blame you?”
“They’ll figure Otto wasn’t getting enough action at home so he had to find something on the side.” Her voice sounded remarkably matter-of-fact.
“Gee,” Pete mused, “so Konigsburgers are assholes just like the rest of us.”
“The thing is, though, they’re all going to assume I’m heartbroken about losing him, so they’ll feel like they need to tiptoe around me or find some way to make me feel better.” She grimaced. “I’m going to hate that.”
“Yeah, I can see how you would. Maybe you could find the bull goose gossip in town and tell her Otto was always a jerk. With any luck she’d spread it around.”
Janie stared out into the darkness again, considering. “Rhonda Ruckelshaus. But it wouldn’t work. She’d just figure I was being brave, putting the best face on it. Damn it!”
Pete glanced up at her. She was staring at him now, her eyes burning.
“I’m so sick of being nice, you know?” Her voice shook slightly. “I’m so sick of being the one everybody goes to when something goes wrong. I’m so tired of being the one who takes care of stuff. I want to be a real bitch for once, but I don’t even know how to start.”
He squinted at her in the shadows of the backyard. “You might need to start slower. Start with being testy, then work up to obnoxious. Then you can make the leap to bitch. I mean Sherice had years to hone her craft. You’re just starting out.”
Janie shook her head, her mouth spreading in a faint grin. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” He took her hand. “You want to just tell everybody to screw off. Sounds good to me.”
He pressed his palm against hers, sliding his fingers in between her fingers, feeling the warmth of her skin, the slight dampness. A night breeze moved through the live oaks, shaking the leaves into a whispering mass.
“Why did you become such a nice girl in the first place, Janie Dupree?” He watched her now, dark eyes to dark eyes. “Nature or nurture?”
“I’m from Konigsburg.” Her smile turned wry. “Females here are bred to be nice. My daddy was from East Louisiana and Mama’s from Lampasas—they both knew how girls were supposed to behave. I’ve spent most of my life living up to that standard, even after Daddy died.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was killed in an accident on the highway—his truck collided with a semi. I was nineteen.” Janie shook her head. “I had three semesters at UT, and then I had to come home and help my mom.”
“Nice girl,” Pete said softly.
She nodded. “Nice girl. I always wanted to go back and finish, but I’ve never had time.”
“So now?”
“So now I’m assistant manager of the bookstore, thanks to Docia.” She shrugged. “I never thought I’d get this far. I figured I’d be a waitress for the rest of my life.”
“Gratitude’s a bitch,” He murmured.
“No. I don’t resent her. Not Docia. And not Cal. He’s the best thing that ever happened to her. I’m so happy for her. I want her to have the best wedding ever.”
Pete nodded. “Yeah. Same for him and me. Although my little brother has never had a problem finding women. Girls always flocked after him like swallows headed back to Capistrano, not that he ever seemed to notice.”
“They didn’t do that with you and Lars?”
He paused to consider. “Lars, yeah. Lars is Mr. Responsible—or he used to be, before Sherice. Women always thought he was a great husband candidate.”
“And you?” Janie cocked her head.
Pete stared up at the streetlight on Spicewood. “Nope. Nobody has ever considered me much of a candidate for Mr. Right. I’m a great candidate for Mr. Right Now, however.” He glanced back at her, feeling his groin tighten. This was definitely not the direction he’d originally planned on going. But then lately his plans had had a tendency to go south.
Part of his brain screamed at him to say good night and go upstairs, but it couldn’t make the connection to the rest of his body, particularly not when she smiled at him like she was doing now.
“I guess that’s one way to get rid of sympathizers. Jump into bed with somebody else.”
She was going to keep talking, and he was going to say something supremely stupid. That was almost a given. Pete leaned over abruptly and covered her mouth with his own.
Heat flashed through his body, sucking the breath from his lungs. She was soft and warm against him, her breasts pressed lightly on his chest. He cupped her face in his hands, angling his head to deepen the kiss.
Janie’s hands moved up his chest to his shoulders. And then she pushed, gently. She tipped her head back, staring up at his face, her eyes narrowed. “Tell me the truth, Pete Toleffson—are you doing this because you feel sorry for me?”
“Sorry?” He was having trouble focusing. What exactly was she talking about? And why had she stopped kissing him?
Her jaw firmed. “Are you sorry for me because Otto dumped me so publicly?”
Good Lord, she was serious!
It took him a moment to remember just who Otto was. “If I’m sorry for anybody, it’s Otto,” he muttered. “The freakin’ idiot blew it big time.”
Janie gave his shoulders a small shake, like a miniature Rottweiler. “I’m serious, Pete. I don’t want pity.”
Pete took a deep breath, closing his eyes. If only he could get enough blood back to his brain to form a sentence. “I don’t believe in pity sex, Ms. Dupree. Among other things, pity doesn’t really do much to get me in the right mood.”
She grinned up at him. “Are you in the right mood?”
Too much talking. Entirely too much talking was going on right now. “Lady, I’ve been in the right mood since I saw you walk into the Dew Drop my first night in town.”
He dropped his head, opening his mouth against hers again. One arm locked around her shoulders as he pulled her against him. Then Janie’s arms wrapped around his neck, and she pressed her body to his, shoulder to hip.
Pete felt as if a small rocket had ignited in his groin. He leaned back against the stair, moving his tongue into the warmth of her mouth, his fingers spearing through her soft hair. All of his senses were suddenly in play—pinwheels of light went off before his eyes, he tasted something sweet, spicy, felt the warm, wet rasp of her tongue, smelled a faint echo of lavender, heard the distant humming of the street lights—or was that him?
Janie’s fingers slid beneath his shirt, smoothing across his chest. Her palm touched the jut of his nipple and every inch of his body was suddenly like rock.
Somehow he had to get her upstairs. Now.
In some corner of her mind, Janie was amazed at herself. She was on the verge of tearing Pete Toleffson’s T-shirt in two and rubbing herself against his naked chest so that she could feel the rasp of his hair against her nipples.
She knew ladies didn’t do this. Even if the ladies came from Texas.
She had all kinds of reasons to call a halt. Her mother might still be waiting up for her at home. Olive was draped across her feet. She’d just had a nasty shock, and she might be doing this for all the wrong reasons.
It didn’t matter a damn. She was going to have sex with Pete Toleffson right here in his backyard and worry about the consequences later.
Then Pete pulled back from her, gently, raising his head. Oh, hell, he was going to be noble.
Except he didn’t look noble. His face was set in hard lines, his jaw impossibly square. His chest rose and fell as he stared down at her. Janie was suddenly afraid he was going to snarl.
“We need to go upstairs,” he rasped.
She tried to kick-start her brain. “We do?”
“Yes, we do. We’re not going to get caught doing this in the backyard. There’s been enough of that already tonight.” Pete stood, pulling her to her feet. “Come on.”
He started up the fire escape, his hand clamped around hers. Janie hurried after him, trying not to trip on the stairs. At the top, he pushed the window up, stepping through. “Watch your head.”
She ducked and followed him over the sill. Then they were standing in his bedroom.
“Oh.” Somehow being downstairs on the fire escape had made the whole thing a lot easier. She could always claim she’d been swept away by the moment. She heard a scrabbling sound behind her and a whimper.
“Oh crap,” Pete muttered. “Olive.”
He stepped to the window and lifted the greyhound through. Then he carried her to the door.
“Sorry, Olive, tonight you get to sleep in the kitchen.”
The door closed on Olive’s yip. Janie had an unreasonable urge to giggle.
Pete pulled his shirt off as he walked back toward her, and all urges to giggle vanished. “Holy crap,” she whispered.
He was beautiful. He was also huge. His shoulders were impossibly broad. She could just see the outlines of the muscles of his chest in the darkened room, and the thick pelt of hair that formed a triangle pointing downward to the button at the top of his fly.
Oh, gosh.
Pete stood in front of her, reaching for the top button on her blouse. Janie swallowed hard.
“Okay?” His brow furrowed slightly.
She took a deep breath. “Oh yes.”
Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes.
The buttons seemed to slide open all at once. His hands skated across her collar bones, pushing the blouse down her arms. Janie tried to remember which bra she had on, hoping it was one of her good ones.
Oh, please, tell me it isn’t cotton.
His fingers returned to the front clasp of her bra. Okay, good, one of the lace ones. And then the bra was gone.
My breasts are too small. They’re a weird shape. They’re not right. Who cares?
Pete leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth. His tongue rasped across it quickly, pebbling the areola. Heat prickled across her skin.
Her fingers itched to touch him and she spread her hands across his chest, rubbing against the crinkling hair.
Oh my. Oh my, my, my.
She heard him gasp as she palmed his nipple. He raised his head then, and she wrapped one arm around his neck.
Pete stumbled forward, pushing her in front of him, and the edge of the mattress pressed against the back of her knees. Her body jackknifed as Pete angled to the side at the last minute so that he didn’t land on top of her.
She stared up at him. His face was taut again, deep grooves running beside his mouth, his chest heaving. For a moment, Janie wondered if they were moving too fast here. Then the moment was gone and she wrapped her arms around his neck again, pulling him down.
His mouth covered hers, his hands moving up to cup her breasts. His thumb dragged across her nipple, and then he pinched hard. A line of fire stretched between her breast and her core, flaming.
Janie caught hold of his waistband, pulling at the button and yanking his fly open. She could feel the weight of him, the hard shape barely contained by the ribbed cotton of his underwear. She stroked him with one hand, feeling the outline of his shaft, the swelling head.
“Oh Christ,” he gasped.
Cool air brushed against her body as he rolled away from her. He struggled to push his jeans down over his feet. And then he was back, fumbling with the zipper on her capris.
Janie was pretty sure he broke the zipper when he jerked it down. Oh well, she could always buy another pair.
Naked now, she rolled her body back against him, feeling the hard jut of his cock against her stomach.
His very large cock.
She suddenly tried to remember just how long it had been since she’d last had sex. Doug Ferguson. Eight months? A year?
Oh god.
Pete’s mouth moved in a line down her body—light kisses whispered across her skin from breast to abdomen. Then he touched his mouth to the tender skin at the top of her thighs, and Janie thought she’d probably die.
Except that he wasn’t finished yet.
His thumbs moved into the soft folds of her sex, opening her, and then his tongue was sliding across her clitoris, sending pinpricks of sensation tickling up her abdomen.
“Oh Pete, oh yes,” she groaned.
His tongue moved to her opening, stabbing inside her as she dug her fingers into his shoulders.
Words failed her, literally. Janie found she couldn’t say anything at all. The sounds that came from her mouth were like no sounds she’d ever made before—moans more than speech. And gasping. A lot of gasping.
She felt as if she were in the back seat of a car speeding down a mountain road. Everything was happening way, way, way too fast, and she had no control whatsoever. Waves of sensation washed over her, pushing her upward.
“Pete,” she groaned. “Please. Wait…just… Oh lord!”
Pete rose above her, his shoulders tight. “Wait?”
“Just…” Janie gasped, trying to get her brain to work again. “It’s all so… I’m sorry.”
He sank beside her on the bed, his face a few inches from her. “Do you mean ‘wait’ as in ‘stop’?” His face was tight again, with those tense grooves along the sides of his mouth.