From Enemies to Expecting(6)

By: Kat Cantrell



“This is all your fault, McLaughlin. We would have won if it wasn’t for you.”

His gaze narrowed, and he reached up to forcibly remove her finger from his person. “What are you talking about? This ship started sinking the second we were paired. Bad girl meets all-American boy. Please. What they should have called us was train meets wreck.”

That struck her as such a perfect way to describe the day that she almost laughed, but she bit it back. She could admire his wit later, over a glass of wine as she celebrated the fact that she never had to see him again. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’ve got no doubt you’re about to tell me,” he offered and crossed his arms in the pose that she’d tried—and failed—to ignore all day. When he did that, his biceps bunched up under his shirt sleeves, screaming to be touched. She just wanted to feel one once. Was that so much to ask?

“Someone needs to. Otherwise, you’d walk around with that rule book shoved up your...butt,” she amended, lest the producers cut the whole exchange due to her potty mouth. “Some rules are made to be broken. That’s why we lost. Apply for sainthood on your own time.”

His expression heated and not in a good way. “Are you saying I’m a Goody Two-shoes?”

“If the shoe fits, wear it,” she suggested sweetly. “And that’s not even the worst of your problems.”

He rolled his eyes, fire shooting from his gaze, and she almost caved, because he was really pissed and while she wanted the cameras on them, she also felt like crap for poking at him. But when he got hot and bothered, he lost all his filters and focused on nothing but her.

That, she liked.

“Oh, I’ve gotta hear this. Please, enlighten me.”

“You’re attracted to me and you can’t stand it.” That was like the pot calling the kettle black, though she scarcely wanted to admit that to herself, let alone out loud.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

Her finger ended up back on his chest. Oops. It was hard and delicious and there was something super hot about how immovable he was. Logan was solid, the kind of guy who might actually stick around when unexpected challenges cropped up. Sometimes a girl needed a strong shoulder. He had two.

“I heard you,” he growled and went to smack away her finger—she’d assumed—but he crushed her palm to his chest, holding it captive with his hand. “What I meant was, that’s the craziest thing you’ve said so far today.”

The cameraman had zoomed in on their discussion. She noted the lens from the corner of her eye and nearly smiled.

You couldn’t buy this kind of exposure. This time tomorrow—with her help—this clip would go viral: Two executives melt down on the set of a reality TV show. Viewers would see a strong woman not taking any crap from her male partner. As long as they spelled Fyra correctly, it should amp up the positive publicity and counter the negative.

“Get ready for more crazy, because not only are you attracted to me, you can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss me. Admit it. You’re curious about the tongue piercing.”

“Of course I am,” he bit out, fuzzing her brain at the same time.

He was? Fascinated, she zeroed in on him, and yeah, there was a whole lot more than agitation in his expression. Logan McLaughlin, official Boy Scout of major league baseball, had never kissed a woman with a tongue piercing. And he wanted to.

Heat and a thick awareness flooded all the places between them. His heart thumped under her palm, strong but erratic, which perfectly mirrored the stuff going on under her own skin.

“What red-blooded male wouldn’t be curious,” he murmured. “When there’s only one reason to have a steel bar through your tongue—to pleasure a man.”

His eyelids shuttered for a beat, and when he opened them, his eyes held so much wicked intent, her pulse bobbled. Caught in his hot gaze, she swayed toward him, her hand fisting his shirt. “One way to find—”

His mouth captured hers before she’d fully registered him moving. And then all rational thought drained from her mind as Logan kissed her. The TV set melted away, the fascinated onlookers disappeared—none of it registered as he yanked her into his embrace.

Exactly where she wanted to be.

Logan McLaughlin was perfection under her hands, because yes, he was that hard all over. His back alone qualified as a work of art, defined with peaks and valleys that she hadn’t ever felt on a man before. Imagine that. Something new to be discovered on a male body.

She wanted more. And took it.

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