Harlan rolls his eyes. “Dramatic much, sweetheart?” He bends, scoops up a pink plastic death device, and waggles it at me.
“Seriously. Stepping on a Lego is on a pain level right up there with childbirth,” I say, then shrug sheepishly. “Or so I’m told.”
He laughs as he sets the block on the entryway table. “Can’t answer that one either. But I will corroborate your concerns. Last season, I was steamrolled by a three-hundred-pound lineman on a short pass and it hurt less than the time I stepped on one of these.”
“So, I’m not dramatic then,” I say, chin lifted haughtily as I head into his home, having left my boots by the front door. My hat too. Also, my whip.
Harlan chuckles, shakes his head. “You’re still dramatic, Katie,” he says.
He flicks on the light for the living room, and I stop in my tracks.
Early-reader books and kid-size blankets cover the couch. Cartoon dogs dance down the fleece on one blanket, dinosaurs roam another, and astronauts fly through space on one more.
“Ah, sorry, I didn’t clean up yet. We were playing library fort this morning before we baked a cherry pie.”
My heart flies out of my chest, cheering in utter delight. I fling my hand to my sternum. “Shut up. Just shut up. You must stop talking now.”
He furrows his brow. “Um, why are you telling me to shut it?”
Settle down, stupid heart. You’re here for rebound banging. Not swooning over his dad skills.
But apparently, I don’t listen to myself. “That’s too cute. Too sweet. Too freaking adorable,” I say, flapping my hand at the evidence on the furniture. “Library fort.”
It’s on the same level as a six-pack.
As dreamy eyes.
“Damn, you really do think I’m just cute,” he says, with a faux-heavy sigh.
I park my hands on my hips. “Hey, why do you think cute is bad, Mister?”
The tall, strapping fireman—he’s still shirtless, lucky me—reaches for a hand, tugs me close. “I would think smoldering, sexy beast would be better. Try that, Katie.”
I slide my hands up his bare chest, thrilling at the feel of his hard, smooth skin. I shiver as I trace his flesh. “Fine, fine. You’re a very sexy beast. That work for you?”
His eyes glint with satisfaction. “Why yes, it does. Now, can I interest you in my bedroom? I think it might work better for my plans for you.”
An idea pops into my dirty brain as I pluck at the suspenders. “You can definitely interest me in your bedroom. But do you think you could fling me over your shoulder and—”
In a flash, he hoists me up, tosses me over his shoulder.
“Oh, hello fireman carry,” I say, a little giddy and a lot turned on as he heads up the steps, two at a time.
Hello, stud.
“Is it wrong of me to like this so much?” I ask, giggling as Harlan effortlessly eats up the stairs with his stride, his big arms wrapped around the back of my chiffon-covered legs. “You’ve got the whole big-and-strong thing down pat.”
“It’s absolutely terrible of you to objectify me for my body. The same one that earns me a damn fine living to support my family,” he says as he hits the second-floor landing.
My family.
The way he says those words—with masculine pride—sends sparks across my skin.
What is with me tonight? I’m turned on by his ability to take care of a kid I don’t even know? Why is this getting to me?
Oh, right.
My emotions are a merry-go-round today.
But all I want now is to ride on the carousel of desire with him.
“I’m sooo sorry for objectifying your strength,” I tease as he turns through the doorway to his bedroom, then sets me down on my bare feet.
The man stares at me, smolder in his irises. “Actually, you should objectify me all night long,” he rumbles as his eyes roam up and down my frame.
I feel naked under his gaze, and I like it a lot.
Need licks at my skin.
Harlan peers at my dress. “Got a zipper on that?”
An idea bursts before me, bright and powerful.
“Rip it off,” I urge.
He lifts one questioning brow. “You want me to tear off your dress? You sure?”
The idea takes a delicious, cathartic hold of me. I need this. I have to have it. I grab a handful of the chiffon skirt. “I’m not wearing this again. I promise.”
“Do you want to sell it?”
Just like I need to have him tonight, I need him to shred this dress from my body. “No. I want you to tear it off me.”
He gives a slow and sexy shrug. “What the lady wants . . .”
My shirtless football player fireman closes the distance, spins me around, sets his big hands on my back.
I shiver in anticipation.
This want feels exhilarating.
Necessary too.
I draw a breath, waiting for him to tug the fabric in one rip. His hands clasp around the top of the chiffon.
But instead, soft lips whisper across my skin.
“Oh God,” I gasp, unbidden.
Unexpectedly.
His mouth travels across my back, dusting reverent, open-mouthed caresses along my body. I arch into his touch, craving more. “Yes,” I murmur.
He roams along my skin to my shoulder, presses a hungrier kiss right there, then coasts those decadent lips over my neck. “Mmm. You taste delicious,” he says.
I shudder as a pulse beats between my legs.
This man does things to me. He has since the night I met him. And he seems to sense my needs before I’m even fully aware of them.
Like he knew I needed gentle, tender kisses first.
He picks up the pace, kissing me harder, rougher. Then digging his teeth into my shoulder. I cry out as he bites me, tossing my head back as the ache turns both sweet and sharp.
“Mmm. You still like biting, I see.”
“From you,” I add, since that feels important. I want him to know that he brings out this feral cat in me, who likes to play and nip. With Harlan, I seem to possess an animalistic desire to tussle.
“Is that so? You saved your biting for me, sweetheart?”
“I did,” I answer as he lifts his face, then returns his hands to the top of my dress. He gives a gentle tug at first. “Ready?”
Funny, I want the ripping off of my dress even more now that he’s marked my back with his sweet, greedy kisses.
Harlan wraps his fingers around the chiffon, then gives a fast, powerful jerk.
The sound of fabric tearing rends the air.
And heats my core.
Holy shit.
It worked.
I gaze down at the top, hanging at my waist in tatters. I’m wearing only a lace bustier and the bottom half of my wedding dress. “Mmm. Gorgeous,” he murmurs against my neck. “Want more?”
“All the way,” I say, breathless, urging him on. Pleasure rattles through me, as he bends lower, one knee on the floor, then gives another hard tug.
Rip!
The white chiffon pools at my feet in pieces.
I turn around, wearing only the lace corset, a garter, and white, barely-there panties.
His eyes glimmer with desire. “Edible, sweetheart. You’re so damn edible,” he says, groaning in wanton appreciation.
His heated gaze sends pleasure spinning in me, dampening my panties so they’re nearly soaked.