It was clear from the look in Chelsea’s eyes that she wanted him. At first, Heath thought maybe it was because she was drunk, but he’d seen her walk on those high heels and knew she couldn’t be too intoxicated. She’d driven over there, after all, hadn’t she?
No, it wasn’t the booze. It was something else. She was generally interested in him. He tried to think back to when she was younger. Had she ever looked at him like that before? He couldn’t really remember, but he didn’t think so.
When he’d first met her, she hadn’t looked like a fifteen year old, but she hadn’t looked like this, that was for damn sure. She’d always been tall and well-built. The first day he’d gone home with Mike from college, she’d been out by the pool with some friends. He’d taken a look at her, wearing a yellow two piece that didn’t hide much, and Mike had punched him in the arm—hard. “That’s my baby sister,” he’d said. “Stay away from her.”
Mike had understood immediately what he’d meant and hadn’t taken another look at Chelsea since. Not a real look, anyway. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t sure if she’d always stared at him with those light eyes narrowed slightly, biting into that plump bottom lip the way he wished his teeth were sunk into it now. Maybe he hadn’t been looking before because he knew Mike would kill him.
But Mike wasn’t here. And she was.
Still, it wouldn’t be right. He couldn’t just sleep with Mike’s sister and then never call her, the way he did a lot of girls. Or go out with her a few times and then disappear. He wasn’t interested in a relationship with anyone, no matter how hot she was. No matter how smart and beautiful she was—as Chelsea clearly was. No, he didn’t want a relationship. But he did want to see if those long legs would wrap all the way around his waist.
She leaned in, placing her elbows on the table as she ran a hand through her sandy hair, knocking some of it free from her clip, which then came out onto the table, the rest of her cascading over her shoulders. A small giggle escaped her lips, but then that serious smolder was back on her face, her eyes locked on his face. The scent of her floral perfume was a soft caress, not an overwhelming flood of flowers. She ran her fingertips along the wood grain of the table, as if to show him just how gentle her touch could be. He had a feeling it could be much more aggressive as well, if she wanted it to be.
Exactly how she came to be straddling him, Heath wasn’t sure, but in the next instant, she’d pushed her chair back from the table and flew across the small space between them, her bare feet soundless on the wooden dining room floor.
The question didn’t grace her lips; it was in her eyes. Did he want to kiss her? Yes, of course. More than anything. Did he dare to kiss her? He knew he shouldn’t. But when Chelsea leaned in, those luscious lips only a fraction of an inch form his own, how in the world was he supposed to say no?