Free Trick Me, Treat Me by Leslie Kelly Page B

at her lip, reminding him of how much he liked kissing women with sultry, pouty bottom lips. At least, he thought he did. For some reason, he wasn’t entirely sure. Not sure of anything, actually.
    “You were unconscious for a few minutes. It’s natural that you might be a little confused.” She glanced around the room and lowered her voice. “Do you remember why you’re here at the inn?”
    He tried to shake his head, then thought better of it. “No, I don’t. Christ, I don’t remember much of anything.”
    A flash of disappointment tugged her brow down and he imagined how that must have sounded. If he’d been kissing her, he must know her. If not, they’d had a fast-moving acquaintance.
    “You might need a minute or two for your head to clear.”
    He didn’t know which of them she was trying to convince, but he appreciated the concern, again wondering how well he knew her. While her face sparked something deep inside his brain—something instinctive and elemental—he couldn’t have spoken her name if someone put a gun to his head.
    “Let me help you get that jacket off,” she continued in that low, sultry whisper, as if afraid someone might overhear. “I’m nervous about you lying here with your gun underneath you.”
    Holy crap . A gun. He had a gun? Why would he have a gun?
    “I’m armed?”
    She nodded, nibbling her lip.
    “You’re sure?”
    “Shh.” She looked around again. “Keep your voice down. You’re lying here, exposed and vulnerable.”
    Exposed? He shifted his eyes, checking everything out, making sure nothing was…er…left undone. Considering the world-class hard-on he’d been sporting since she’d leaned over him, he figured he’d have noticed if his pants weren’t fastened. The room wasn’t exactly warm, and he definitely wasn’t feeling a draft. In fact, that particular area of his anatomy was getting damned hot.
    “You showed it to me.”
    Showed it? His brow shot up. “I did?”
    She nodded. “It wasn’t very big.”
    Bullshit.
    “Your gun, I mean,” she clarified quickly, a faint blush the only indication that she’d correctly interpreted the half offended, half disbelieving expression on his face. “I was talking about the gun. You’re lying on it. So you should probably take your jacket off.”
    “All right.” Though the pain was beginning to recede until it resembled a butcher knife rather than a hatchet in his brain, he still cringed as he lifted his shoulders to remove the jacket.
    Her comments about being “exposed” and “showing it” might have been made in perfect innocence. But he couldn’t help risking another quick lap check. All clear. Except for the continued discomfort of a pair of pants that, like the Grinch’s heart, suddenly felt two sizes too small.
    She helped him slip out of the jacket, her body coming incredibly close to brushing against his. All his senses perked right up, conscious of the brush of her hair against his face, the sweet scent of her skin, the husky rhythm of her heavily indrawn breaths.
    An inch. One inch closer and she’d be almost lying across his lap while she pushed the jacket off one shoulder and reached around to tug it out from under him. One inch and all that would keep them apart would be her silky white gown, his own dark clothes, and a headache the size of Milwaukee.
    She pulled away, as if feeling the same flash of heated awareness. Tossing his jacket onto a chair, she turned a deeper shade of pink as he watched her, still trying to figure out just what had happened. Where it had happened. Why it had happened. And when it could happen again.
    Unfortunately, without the leather coat as a barrier, he quickly became aware of a cold, wet sensation spreading on his back. “Am I lying in something? I’m getting wet. You sure your aunt didn’t bash me with a snow globe?”
    “Sorry. You tipped over a bottle of water when you fell.”
    “Great,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’m soaked.” Not giving it