Free Tangled Up in Love by Heidi Betts Page B

wasn’t exactly a comforting thought, but she had no intention of letting her errant hormones overrule her more prudent sensibilities, no matter how loudly they sat up and begged.
    Pouring a few more inches of wine, she took another hearty swallow, then topped off her glass before filling his and carrying both into the living room.
    He was seated on the floor now, the same as she’d been before his arrival. His long, denim-covered legs were stretched out beneath the table, crossed at ankles that stuck out from the other side. He tapped a couple of keys on the laptop, then sat back and took the glass of wine she offered.
    She moved to the far end of the sofa, putting as much distance between them as possible. Where she’d been feeling loose and comfortable before, she now held herself stiff and rigid. Even though a couple of feet of empty space separated them, she still leaned into the arm of the couch, away from him, and crossed her legs primly.
    Dylan took a sip of his wine . . . a small sip that didn’t even remotely catch him up to her . . . and shifted to face her, resting his free arm on the cushion of the sofa.
    “So,” he said casually, his tone light, “who’s Domiknitrix?”
    Her eyes widened in surprise, and the mouthful of Pinot Grigio she’d been in the process of swallowing threatened to go down the wrong pipe.
    How had he found out about that?
    Of course, since her luck seemed to be in the toilet already, it was only logical that things would continue on that track. Instead of keeping his distance, Dylan popped up off the floor to come to her rescue. He slid onto the sofa beside her and patted her on the back until her coughing fit subsided.
    “You okay?” he asked. His wide, strong hand made rhythmic taps and circles on her back, sending shivers out in every direction from where he touched.
    She nodded, despite the fact that her face was hot with embarrassment. Lower, though, and deep down inside, everything hummed in sensual, sizzling awareness of the man beside her.
    Showing no concern whatsoever for her ability to breathe, he leaned back, adopting a slouched posture in the center of her overstuffed sofa, and murmured, “Ihave to admit, I’m intrigued. It’s not just any woman who would have the
cojones
to use Domiknitrix as her onscreen user name. That’s kind of . . . kinky, don’t you think?”
    Prior to her anxiety attack, her glass had been nearly empty, so none of her wine had spilled. But why take chances? Raising the wine to her lips, she drained the last of her own, then grabbed Dylan’s right out of his hand and drained that, too.
    “I don’t know why you’re surprised, Stone. We’ve already established that my balls are at least as big as yours.”
    He chuckled, moving to relieve her of both wine-glasses and set them aside on the coffee table.
    “True—figuratively speaking, at least.” He cast her a pointed glance. “I hope.”
    “Don’t worry, Stone, I’m not packing anything other than the average, everyday female parts. But I can still kick your ass at anything you claim men do better than women.”
    He studied her for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, gentler. “Don’t you think it’s about time you started calling me Dylan?”
    She blinked, taken aback by the question. She’d just been working up a good head of steam, feeling fully in control of herself for the first time that evening and back on the solid ground.
    And then he’d pulled a 180, yanking the rug out from under her with a completely unrelated—not to mention civil—request.
    She hated when he did that.
    “Do you really think it’s a good idea to be on a first-name basis?”
    He threw his head back and laughed.
    “Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie,” he said after he’d recovered from whatever he found so amusing. “You really are a treat. You’re the only woman I know who would invite a man into her apartment while she’s in her jammies, do her best to teach him to knit,