She slowly went limp, held upright only by the pressure of his body all along hers. Vaguely she was aware that nothing in her life had ever felt as good, or as comfortable. It shouldn’t have been comfortable, not with the cold metal of the car behind her, but she lifted her arms and twined them around his neck, and her body fit to his as if they had been custom-made to go together. Curves and mounds, angles and planes—they fit. The heat of his body seared her all the way through, the scent of his skin permeated her, and his honey taste beguiled her into wanting more, needing, demanding more. And he gave her more, holding her even closer, so that her hips cradled his pelvis and the ridge of his erection rode hard against the juncture of her thighs.
Another car went by, horn blaring. Jack raised his head long enough to mutter, “Bastard”; then he kissed her again, more of those deep, hungry kisses that fed her own hunger. Her heartbeat hammered wildly against her breastbone. Part of her mind—a tiny, distant part—was astonished that this was happening to her, that she was actually standing beside a road in the dark letting a man kiss her as if he intended to strip her naked and take her right there, standing up, in public. And she wasn’t just letting him kiss her, she was kissing him back, one hand clasped on the back of his head and the other slipped inside his collar to touch the back of his neck, that small touch of his bare skin making her almost dizzy with delight.
Finally he lifted his mouth, gasping for breath. She clung to him, bereft, needing more of those honey kisses. He rested his damp forehead against hers. “Miss Daisy,” he murmured, “I really, really want to get naked with you.”
Fifteen minutes ago—or maybe it was twenty—she would have told him in no uncertain terms that his attentions were unwelcome. Fifteen minutes ago, however, she hadn’t known she was addicted to honey.
“Oh, this is bad,” she said distractedly. The man was positively narcotic, and she had never suspected. No wonder so many of the women in town were nuts over him! They’d been tasting him, too. Suddenly she didn’t like that idea at all.
“I thought it was damn good.”
“It’s totally ridiculous.”
“But damn good.”
“You aren’t my type at all.”
“Thank God for that. I’d never survive otherwise.” He came back for another kiss, one that had her rising on tiptoe and straining to get closer. His right hand closed firmly over her breast, weighing and kneading, unerringly finding her nipple and rubbing it into a tight little point. The sensation splintered through her, making her moan. The sound of her own voice shocked her back into a small measure of sanity; she let herself revel in the feel of his hand on her breast for another few seconds, or twenty; then she dragged her hands from around his neck and braced them against his chest. Oh, goodness, even the feel of his chest was an enticement, so warm and hard with muscle, and with his heart thundering under her palm. Knowing he was just as excited as she, was as heady as her own arousal. She, Daisy Ann Minor, had done this to a man! And not just any man—Jack Russo, of all people!
He’d lifted his mouth as soon as she planted her hands against him. If his hand was slower to leave her breast, she didn’t complain. As if every inch were agony, he eased away from her, putting a small space between them. Suddenly deprived of his heat, she felt as if the night had turned icy cold. It was a balmy summer night, but compared to Jack, the air felt almost wintry.
“You’re ruining all my plans.”
“What plans are those?” He bent his head and began nibbling at her jawline, quick little biting kisses, as if he had to taste her again. He didn’t touch her in any other way. He didn’t have to. She caught herself automatically leaning toward him, and jerked upright again.
She was distracted enough to say, “I’m hunting for a man.”
“I’m a man,” he muttered against her collarbone. “What’s wrong with me?”
Her neck was getting weak, too weak to hold up her head. It was as if she were Superwoman and he was Kryptonite, robbing her of strength. Desperately she fought back. “I mean a relationship man.”
“I’m single.”
She burst out, “I want to get married and have babies!”
He straightened as if he’d been shot. “Whoa.”
Now that he wasn’t touching her, she could breathe more easily. “Yes, whoa. I’m husband-hunting, and you’re getting in the way.”
“Husband-hunting, huh?”
She didn’t like his tone, but there was an oncoming car; she waited until it had passed before glaring up at him. “Thanks to you and your little show in the pharmacy, everyone in Hillsboro already thinks we have a—a thing, so no one there will ask me out. I have to go out to nightclubs now to find a man, but you’re still doing the same thing, making people think we’re together and keeping other men away from me.”
“I’ve been keeping you out of trouble.”
“Last week, yes, but this week I wasn’t in any trouble, I wasn’t causing any trouble, I wasn’t even near any trouble. That man you ran off might have been the love of my life, but now I’ll never know because you told him I was with you.”
“He was wearing a ‘Party Hearty’ T-shirt, and you think he was the love of your life?”
“Of course not,” she snapped. “That isn’t the point, and you know it. He was just an example. At the rate you’re going, you’ll have every man in north Alabama thinking I’m spoken for. I’ll have to drive to Atlanta to find someone.”