Hard and Fast (Fast Track #2)(10)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Yep. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. And you tell me which wet is more fun . . . getting nailed by rain or just getting nailed?”

He should shut up. Quit tweaking her. But it was warm and humid in her small car, and she was so close to him that he could smell the dampness of her skin, see the way her hair was drying in tiny wisps above her ear, hear the catch of her breath behind her teeth. Ty was intrigued by her in a way he hadn’t been by a woman in a long, long time. He wasn’t sure what he expected her to say, but he was almost certain he would enjoy her answer.

“Well, I think, inarguably, unless someone is suffering from a sexual dysfunction, that most people would prefer the wetness of arousal to the wetness of a cold rain.”

Ty laughed. Yep, he liked that answer. “Which do you prefer?” he teased her.

Imogen didn’t stop to think about the ramifications of her words. She just spoke honestly, “Oh, arousal. Undoubtedly.”

The look on his face told her she was playing with fire. He wasn’t just having a casual conversation where they were making sociological observations. He was flirting with her and she had known it all along. From the minute he’d spoken to her on the porch.

Now they were alone in her car, he was suddenly single, she had offered to drive him home from Tamara’s, and they were discussing sexual lubrication.

Often throughout her twenty-eight years, her mother had told her that her curiosity and innate honesty were going to get her in trouble, and if winding up naked in bed with Ty McCordle was trouble, Imogen had the feeling that was precisely where she was headed. Interesting that she didn’t seem to be running from said trouble, but was actually leaning closer to the source.

“Should we test your theory?” he asked, his hand snaking over and resting on her knee, his thumb caressing in a small circle. “Get you wet both ways and see which one you enjoy more?”

Imogen swallowed. She was no sexual novice. In fact, in college she’d had quite a hot and heavy affair with a grad student, and considered herself fairly well versed in male mating techniques—aka pickup lines—but she’d never had anyone throw it out there in such an obvious way as Ty did. At least she thought it was obvious. It occurred to her she should verify that before she misinterpreted, given her lack of experience with men like him.

“Are you suggesting that we have sex?”

He grinned. “Well, I’m not talking about a dunk in the lake, that’s for sure.”

“This seems a bit impulsive.”

“Sex usually is.”

Ty’s hand had slid farther up on her thigh, and while her intellect might be hesitating, her body certainly wasn’t. Imogen felt a jab of desire low in her womb, and her heart rate had kicked up a notch or two or three. She tried to ignore it. “But you’re just coming out of a bad breakup, and I don’t know how I feel about being a one-night stand you indulge in on the rebound.”

His hand paused in its northward trek up her leg, and he made a sound of impatience. “It wasn’t a bad breakup. I am relieved, do you understand? Totally relieved to be done with Nikki. And who says it has to be a one-night stand?”

“Because in most cases when two people who don’t know each other very well get naked and have sex impulsively, if they try to continue seeing each other, they struggle to define the parameters of their relationship afterwards. It very rarely works to engage in extreme intimacy before you have some working knowledge of each other’s personality and how you interrelate.”

Ty snorted. “Ask a hundred married couples how many of them waited more than a minute before getting horizontal. I don’t see the sense in waiting if you want someone.”

Damn, his hand was trekking upward again and Imogen was struggling to concentrate on her point. She was no longer even sure why this particular point was important, and why she couldn’t just dive into bed with Ty. Yet even under a haze of desire, her sense of logic warred with her curiosity. She wanted to see, to feel, what it would be like to have sex with Ty, but her logical side said she absolutely did need to know why he wanted to get intimate with her, and what they would do about it after the moment passed and tomorrow rolled around.

“It’s not a good idea.”

Curses on her need for control, to always know the answers ahead of time. She could see the irritation growing on his face.

“Look, I’m not going to talk you into it, Emma Jean. I want a woman who wants me with zero hesitation. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Imogen frowned. “No, I don’t. I don’t know where you live or your phone number.”

Ty laughed. “God, you can’t stop your brain, can you? It’s always working things out.”

It struck a chord with her. She knew that sometimes her logic, her need to analyze and assess and study from every angle, was a huge detriment to just enjoying moments in life. It was something she struggled with, constantly being the observer instead of the participant, and it caused a twinge of shame that Ty had seen straight through her to what she considered her one true flaw.

“There’s nothing wrong with using my brain,” she said defensively. “If more people did, maybe we wouldn’t have a society on the brink of a complete breakdown, its social and moral structure decimated. Maybe if women were in charge instead of men, we—”

Imogen squeaked and forgot what she was saying when Ty’s hand slid under her legs and started to lift her up off her seat. “What are you doing?” she asked in a panic, reaching for the steering wheel, off balance in more ways than one.

“Get your sexy ass over here, Beatrice,” he said, dragging her across the gearshift until she was in his lap. “So I can kiss you until you’ve forgotten all your logical arguments why I shouldn’t kiss you.”

“But . . .” She had no idea what she was going to say because her mind went utterly and completely blank. She was sitting on Ty’s lap. His hard thighs were beneath her butt, his strong arms wrapped around her, and his mouth was inches from hers. She could smell him, a mixture of rain and aftershave, see the even whiteness of his teeth in the dark. He had lovely teeth.

And he had called her Beatrice. He had understood the conversation they’d had, given it back as good as she’d given it, even if he had never read Shakespeare.

Did she really want to be Beatrice? Alone, arguably bitter, holding firm to her principles? Or did she want to enjoy the moment? After all, Beatrice had met her match in Benedick in the end.