Tap Out by Michele Mannon

Author:Michele Mannon [Mannon, Michele]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2014-04-13T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

HAYMAKER: A good ole fashioned punch, most often witnessed in barnyards.

Caden cursed under his breath as he plucked the last pink petal off the single rose he’d purchased back in the manager’s office. What made him dream up this dumb move, he didn’t know. He sprinkled the final handful onto Sophie’s pillow.

She murmured incomprehensibly. The smile that he’d put on her lips remained.

Another considerate gesture from an inconsiderate guy.

Thoughtfulness wasn’t his usual mode of operation. A long, hard fuck or women pleasuring him, not the other way around, that was the deal. Hell, he was a selfish guy. Usually he held his women physically close—hell, buried balls deep inside them—but kept himself emotionally distant. No romantic bullshit. No regrets. No weird desire to climb back in bed and freakin’ spoon up against her.

Sophie sneezed and her eyelashes fluttered, but she didn’t wake.

He grinned down at her, pleased she was exhausted. He’d brought her to climax twice, first with his mouth, then with his fingers. Enjoyed it, too. Thinking about the way her skin flushed pink and the little moan she gave as she peaked made him hard.

Once more he contemplated crawling back into bed and wrapping himself around her, just the position he’d found himself in when he’d woken up.

His cold, calculated manner—one of several steel-thick layers protecting his own vulnerability—hadn’t discouraged her in the slightest. Though for a second, when he’d mentioned how she’d slept her way to the top, he’d thought he’d actually hurt her. As for throwing her off track with sex-talk, that had them both wanting to get down-and-dirty quicker than a country swing dance. Shaking his head, he moved away from the bed and finished stuffing his clothing into his bag, leaving a fresh set out to change into.

Sophie’d seen past his bullshit.

Neat, tidy, unemotional and mutually satisfying. That’s how he liked to keep things. Sentimental suicide, that’s what this was.

All the more reason to hightail it out of Dodge.

Which is what he’d been trying to do for the past half hour, having woken the motel manager up to get the garage keys. And the goddamn rose.

As he stripped, the nagging sensation that he’d made some kind of unspoken promise persisted.

He looked around the room, spotted the camera bag she’d placed on the chair by the wall, then turned back to the woman sleeping soundly in bed. He’s seen a side of her he hadn’t expected. Someone had hurt her, likely an ex—Hank Cawfield? That the pain still lingered was clear. It left her softer than expected, more vulnerable.

Surprising. Yet nothing about last night was typical.

Suddenly, he had the desire to leave her with something, something more than the petals he’d tossed on her pillow and the smile he’d put on her lips.

Striding over to the chair, he removed her camcorder from the bag, then returned to bed and settled back down on the mattress beside her. Adjusting the sheet around his nakedness, he flipped open the viewfinder, held up the camcorder, and hit record.

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