Page 36 of Reckless Skye

Skye just scowled. ‘Don’t joke.’

He sent one quick prayer heavenwards, a simple, God, give me strength. And then he tried to be a good man, an honourable one, one last time. ‘I’m trying to do the right thing, Skye. Not the easy thing,’ he explained. ‘Because it would be so easy to take you right here, right now.’ He used both hands to pull her up and over his erection again. ‘I want you. You know that. But I don’t want you to have regrets.’

‘I won’t,’ she insisted. Her voice took on a husky tone that shot straight to his balls. ‘Please. I feel like I could just explode.’

‘Sweet Jesus.’ He could feel his defences crumbling. His fingers actually rose to toy with the button of her jeans. His eyes dropped to her waistband – and inadvertently caught the tailgate in his peripheries.

‘Not here.’ Close to losing his mind, he lifted her off his lap.

Skye threw her arms up, her wild side sneaking through. ‘Where? When?’ she demanded. ‘If you don’t want me, then just—’

Before she could finish the sentence, he stole the words. He pried her lips open and took her, letting his greed reign for a full three seconds. But the moment she recovered from her shock enough to respond, her arms rising to grip his shirt, her lips slanting to give him better access, he pulled back.

‘Don’t fuck around,’ he warned her. ‘You know I want you.’

She deflated. ‘You’re right. That was a stupid thing to say.’

‘If you still want me tomorrow, I’ll be here. Meet me at the front of the house at seven.’ He pushed off the tailgate and grabbed the takeout trash with one hand. Before he left her there, he ended the conversation with, ‘And wear a dress.’

Chapter 11

‘Wear a dress,’ Skye muttered to herself the next day as she rifled through her meagre supply of clothes in search of something remotely appropriate.

She’d spent the day helping Janey with the nursery and inwardly cursing TJ for walking away from her. Not because she disagreed with him necessarily. In fact, once she’d had time to calm down, she’d realized that it hadn’t been easy for him to take that step back.

Still, she cursed him because it hadn’t been easy for her either. She’d had to swallow every iota of her pride to put herself out there, and then he’d had to go and take the high ground, making all the anxiety and build-up pointless.

Now, all that sick dread was still there, collecting in her stomach like a swarm of angry bees. And to make matters infinitely worse, she didn’t have a dress.

She’d refused to take anything from Holden’s when she’d left. Instead, she’d restocked on essentials only, packing those things she’d thought she’d need on the road. Things that would last a long time. Jeans, shorts, workout gear. She’d even bought two oversized pairs of sweatpants, which was indicative of how low looking nice for a man had been on her list of priorities.

Once she’d bought Smokey, she’d slowly added horse gear to her supplies, picking up odd items at Tractor Supply and second-hand tack shops, so that while Smokey had a waterproof sheet and a thick blanket for the colder days, Skye didn’t own a single stupid dress.

Frustrated by her thin wardrobe, she yanked out a pair of denim shorts and a cropped top, then bundled her clothes and her toiletry bag under her arm and walked down the hall to the bathroom. She locked the door, turned on the shower. As she waited for the water to heat, she studied her face in the mirror.

Although only three months had passed, she looked older than she had when she’d set out. She certainly didn’t look twenty-two anymore. While her skin was youthful, her cheeks still slightly full, her eyes aged her. She’d seen too much, lived too hard to look so young.

‘And yet, you’re still a virgin,’ she said with resigned embarrassment. But not for much longer, she promised. Not for a single day more.

She gripped the edge of the sink as her nerves rose, but instead of succumbing to them, Skye glared at her reflection. ‘Enough. Just get it over with. You’ll be fine.’ And when that didn’t help, she reminded herself, ‘TJ won’t hurt you.’

She closed her eyes and recalled the feeling of his big hands on her hips, his thighs beneath hers, his hard length pressing awkwardly into her leg. She remembered the incredible kiss they’d shared, and, oddly, she drew comfort from his insistence that she take the day to think about it – about them. Not because she’d been unsure, but because it was proof of what she already knew: he was a good man.

He wouldn’t pressure her. He would stop if she asked. Knowing it, remembering it, calmed her. Twenty-four hours might not have weakened her resolve, but it had given her time to be sure.

It was only when she moved to strip her clothes that she saw TJ’s clean jeans and button-down hanging on the back of the bathroom door, waiting for him to shower and get ready.

She walked over to where the clothes hung and raised her fingers to touch the white linen shirt. On impulse, she lifted the hanger from the hook on the door and held the shirt up to her shoulders, so that it fell to mid-thigh.

Her laugh was a little wild. But this time, when Skye spun around to look at her reflection, the shirt draped over her, a lick of confidence sliced through her nerves. ‘He did say to wear a dress.’

Riding on the whim, she hurriedly showered and changed, sliding her bra and pants on first, followed by her denim shorts and, lastly, TJ’s shirt.

Back in her bedroom, she took stock of her appearance. Although the shirt was long enough, it bagged everywhere else, making her look like a head and legs sticking out of a sack. The sleeves were so long that her hands weren’t visible at all.

‘I can work with this,’ she said dubiously, and rolled the sleeves up past her elbows. She found her belt in her duffel bag and shortened it enough to fit tightly around her waist, cinching the baggy shirt to her figure. She pulled on her boots and sat down on her bed to do her makeup.

As a little girl, she’d loved the ritual of it, had loved watching her mother so expertly transform herself, using nothing but pots of cream, bottles of foundation, palettes of colour, and tubes of mascara and lipstick. But over the years, as Caroline had used her knowledge and skill to hide her haggard fatigue and unhappiness, the wonder of it had soured. And when she’d taught Skye to do the same, when wearing makeup had become synonymous with hiding her pain, the last of Skye’s fascination for the art had turned to disdain.