Free Pride (In Wilde Country Book 1) by Sandra Marton

arguing and snapping at each other and, wham, next thing they were in a motel room they might as well have rented by the hour.
    “Dammit,” she whispered, and felt heat rush to her face.
    How about by the minute? Because she’d gone at him like a bitch in heat. Fast. Greedy. No preliminaries and then the final touch. That note. God, that note.
    Cheyenne turned on the side sprays, closed her eyes as the water beat against her aching muscles.
    The only thing she hadn’t done was leave him a fifty-dollar bill for cab fare.
    Was that what happened when you hadn’t had sex for a while? For more than a while?
    “For months,” she said aloud. “Be honest, McKenna, at least with yourself. You haven’t been with a man for a long time.”
    She hadn’t planned it that way. It was only that none of the guys she knew seemed terribly interesting. They rarely did. She knew what it looked like from the outside, a woman moving in a world of sexy-looking male models, but the truth was that it was a world of shiny egos and fragile dispositions, and being out with a man who couldn’t pass a mirror without looking at himself grew old pretty fast.
    Besides, she’d always had a removed attitude about sex. She wasn’t shy about it—it was a normal human need, which, given everything that had happened in her life, sometimes still struck her as a surprise, but yes, when the time and the man were right, she didn’t hang back. And yes, she liked to take the lead. Nothing wrong with that, either.
    But she didn’t have sex with strangers. And no matter how you looked at it, Luca Bellini was a stranger.
    She sighed, tilted her head back and gave herself up to the soothing cascade of warm water.
    At least she’d never have to see him again, so who cared what he thought? Who cared what any of them thought, from the photographers who had once asked only for her and now acted as if they were doing her a favor when they shot her, to the designers who had once fought have her on their catwalks and now had to be convinced to hire her, to her agent, dammit, her very own agent who’d told her, bluntly, that putting up with the temper flare-ups of a Naomi Campbell was one thing; tolerating the increasing control issues of a Cheyenne McKenna was quite another.
    The first thing got publicity.
    The second put you on everybody’s shit list.
    Besides, she didn’t have control issues.
    Just because she knew what lighting was best for her hair and skin, what makeup would show whatever she was modeling to its maximum advantage; just because she had a better eye for color than most photographers, a firmer grasp of how to accessorize than many designers…
    Just because she’d had sex with a man she’d damn near raped…
    “Oh for God’s sake, McKenna!”
    Back to that.
    And it was ridiculous, thinking that way.
    A woman couldn’t rape a man. And even if it were possible, she had surely not raped the Italian. He’d been a more than willing participant in their steamy encounter. That finger-sucking thing in her truck, and then that kiss in the motel parking lot…
    That kiss had sent a river of fire racing through her blood.
    His erection, pressing into her belly.
    His arms, hard around her.
    He’d almost carried her to that motel room and once they were alone, when she’d unzipped his fly, he’d sprung into her hands, his flesh hot, swollen, eager.
    “Stop it,” she whispered.
    She was turning herself on, just remembering.
    Why had the sex with Luca Bellini been so thrilling?
    He was gorgeous, yes. He had a wonderful voice, that little accent thing. She’d liked that he was big and lean and hard-bodied, that he was taller than she was, even in those silly cowboy boots she’d worn—worn deliberately, because she’d expected to spend a couple of hours with Travis Wilde and she’d met Travis so she knew he’d tower over her and she didn’t like that, the feeling she got when she had to tilt her head back to look at a man’s face, that sense