Bedded for His Pleasure: Bedded by a Bad Boy / In the Gardener's Bed / The Return of the Rebel

‘Are we going home?’ She certainly hoped so.

‘No way.’ He shot her a quick grin, but carried on walking, forcing Jessie to jog to keep up with his long strides. ‘You’ll just end up jumping me again.’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Who knew you sweet little English girls could be so damned insatiable?’

‘Well, really.’ Jessie laughed. ‘Who knew you Yankee guys would get knackered so quickly?’

‘Knackered!’ He stopped in front of the Harley, dumped the grocery sack on the bike seat and put his hands on her hips. He placed a light kiss on her lips, his eyes challenging. ‘You wanna bet on that?’

‘I certainly do.’ She drew her arms up, threaded her fingers through the soft, shaggy gold-streaked hair that she adored. ‘Still think you can handle me?’

His hands slid around to her bottom, massaging the flesh through the thin fabric of the cotton trouser suit she wore. ‘If it’s a matter of my Yankee honour.’ He dipped his head, took her lips in a hot, demanding kiss.

She drew back, breathless. ‘You win, Yankee boy.’

He gave her bottom one more quick squeeze and then let her go. ‘Hell, I guess that means I don’t get to ravish you, right?’

‘You can’t have it both ways, buster,’ she said, lifting a coquettish eyebrow.

He sighed, pulled her helmet out of the bike’s saddlebags and handed it to her. ‘Mount up. We’re going on a picnic.’

The streets of Cranford were clogged with tourists. Monroe had to ease the bike down Main Street, threading through the crowds of people heading to the town’s beach. The old-fashioned clapboard sidewalks were overflowing, spilling tourists into the road like so much flotsam. The midday sun was a killer, scorching bare flesh and making children cranky and unmanageable.

Monroe didn’t mind the delay a bit. He could feel Jessie’s arms tight around his waist, her thighs pressed against his hips. As much as he would have loved to head straight home, he forced himself not to.

He’d gorged on her the last four days. But it seemed the more of her he had, the more he needed. The way she responded to him was like a fire in his blood, making him want more all the time, making him take more. He knew he’d exhausted her last night—and himself.

He’d slept like a log.

Ever since prison he’d had trouble getting to sleep. Not any more, it seemed. With her in his arms, snuggled against him in the darkness, the stir of passion still flowing through him, he’d drifted off like a baby.

He’d decided on the way to town that this afternoon was going to be different. He was going to prove he could keep his hands off her.

He’d stopped by the grocery store on his way into the gallery and picked up some stuff for lunch. He knew of a nice little spot at Montauk Point that shouldn’t be too crowded, but there would be enough people about to stop him getting any ideas. Not that he needed them there, of course; he could keep his hands off her if he had to.

As the bike finally cruised past the town limits he revved his hand on the throttle. As they shot down Sunrise Highway, he couldn’t ignore the thrill that surged through him as Jessie’s arms tightened around his waist.

Jessie could see the lighthouse, tall and solitary at the end of the point, as the sea breeze whipped at her face. She clung onto Monroe as the bike angled down to the left, along a narrow strip of path that led to a small spray of sand hugging the Point’s leeward side. A few tourists had been milling about up top, but once Monroe brought the bike to a stop at the edge of the sand she couldn’t see anyone.

Could Monroe have found anywhere more romantic for their picnic? Maybe missing their afternoon lovemaking session wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

He took her hand as they walked onto the sand. The bracken bushes provided some handy shade from the noon sun as he spread a thin blanket on the ground, and dropped the brown paper sack onto it.

Jessie took off her jacket, the lacy camisole beneath fluttered in the breeze and cooled her heated flesh. Sitting down, she toed off her sandals and reached for the bag.

‘I certainly hope we’ve got something more inspired than sandwiches in here,’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’

‘You know what?’ He sank down onto the blanket next to her and grabbed the grocery sack. ‘She who doesn’t buy doesn’t get to belly-ache about what’s in the bag.’

‘What are those—Latimer house rules?’ Jessie’s lips curved as she watched him pull an assortment of ready-made salads and a large foil bag out of the sack.

‘Yeah,’ he said as he brought out a chilled bottle of wine with a flourish. ‘Now who’s griping?’

‘Not me,’ she replied.

He up-ended the sack and paper plates, plastic cups, napkins, forks and a bottle opener dropped onto the blanket.

‘You thought of everything. I’m impressed.’ Jessie tried to sound contrite but was enjoying the moment too much. He looked so pleased with himself. Like a little boy who’d just got straight As for the first time.

As he concentrated on opening the wine, Jessie leant forward on her knees and placed her hands on his shoulder. When his head came up, she put her lips on his. The kiss was a whisper, full of the love blossoming inside her.

He dropped the wine, fisted his fingers in her hair. Dragging her mouth across his, he plundered. The kiss shot to scorching, but only for a moment. When he released her, his face was dark with arousal, and something else, something she wasn’t sure of.

He scooped up the bottle of wine. ‘Don’t get carried away, Red. We haven’t tasted it yet.’

Jessie forced herself to ignore the stab of regret. Why hadn’t he carried on kissing her? Don’t be a ninny. Of course he didn’t want to take things any further—they were on a public beach. Anyone might see them. But she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he had withdrawn for some other reason.

She turned round on the blanket, stared out at the waves gently lapping against the shore. She could hear the screech of seagulls overhead, see the tip of the lighthouse in the distance over the long grass and bracken that edged the bluff.

‘Here you go, Red.’ He nudged her arm. She turned and took the plastic cup. He tapped it with his own. ‘Here’s to sand in your potato salad.’

Jessie forced her lips to curve. ‘Here’s to guys who know how to pack a picnic.’

Monroe took a long gulp of the light, fresh white wine. It tasted pretty good, but did nothing to calm the fire inside him.

She had wanted to continue the embrace, had looked disappointed when he’d pulled his mouth away. That fact and the memory of her warm and willing in his arms was making the need claw in his gut like an angry dog. He screwed the plastic glass down into the sand and started pulling the wrapper off the plates.

He’d brought her here to have a nice sensible lunch, not climb all over her again as soon as they got here. He refused to feel bad about it. Even though the confusion in her eyes and the surge of blood to his groin made it damn near impossible not to drag her across his lap right now and…

Jessie opened the salads, searched for something to say as she arranged them on the blanket. ‘Ali called the gallery today.’

‘How are they doing?’

‘Ali’s exhausted. I don’t think she’s left the penthouse much.’

‘The heat’s a bitch in Manhattan in August.’ Monroe ladled some potato salad onto her plate, then his.

‘Emmy’s having a great time, though. Linc took her to the Bronx Zoo yesterday.’ Jessie laughed, remembering the conversation with her sister that morning. ‘She said Linc was so shattered when they got back he could hardly string together a coherent sentence.’

Monroe chuckled. ‘I bet Emmy was still chattering away like a little magpie. The poor guy.’ Tearing open the foil sack, he put a piece of fried chicken on Jessie’s plate. ‘Did you say anything to Ali about us?’

Jessie glanced up, watched him lick his fingers. ‘No, I didn’t.’ Was that relief she saw flash in his eyes? No, she was being silly, paranoid. ‘Ali wouldn’t be all that surprised, though.’

‘Why?’

Jessie wished she hadn’t blurted that out. How did she explain the statement without sounding pathetic?