Her eyes widened.

“Don’t look so scandalized. I don’t do whips or canes or anything. Nothing like that. I know it’s not your cup of tea, but plenty of women get off on—”

“How do you know it’s not my thing?” Her chin shot up.

He laughed and shook his head. “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you.”

“You don’t know everything about me.”

“Right. Rough sex is your thing.”

“Maybe.”

He snorted. “Your face is the color of a tomato right now.”

“S-so,” she sputtered, hating that he thought he had her so figured out. Even if maybe he did. “You don’t know what I would or wouldn’t do in bed. Do you?” God, just stop. Say nothing more. “I mean, maybe I like that kind of thing, too.” Great. Babbling and lying now.

Amusement danced in his dark eyes, but thankfully he didn’t laugh. She couldn’t have handled him laughing outright in her face.

“I guess I don’t know,” he allowed. “It’s just you aren’t exactly what I would call experienced—”

Her expression must have showed how much that statement felt like a jab. He quickly amended, “Hey, I just wouldn’t think you were into anything more adventurous than—”

“Missionary?” She shot back. “Well, you aren’t exactly versed in what I like when it comes to sex, are you?”

He gave her an unreadable look. “No. I guess I’m not.”

Plucking the cuffs from her hands, he stuck them back inside the drawer and opened another one, his movements brisk and efficient. Taking out a T-shirt, he handed it to her. “Here you go.”

She continued staring at him, those flutters still dancing in her stomach. “Thanks.”

Turning, she shut herself inside the bathroom and changed into a soft cotton T-shirt that smelled like him. Even though the hem fell mid-thigh, she kept her skirt on since it fell a little lower. Stepping out of the bathroom, she found him back in bed again.

She settled down beside him, on top of the covers, telling herself this was no different than any other night they watched TV together on her couch. Even if she kept hearing Cullen’s deep voice in her head. Sometimes it gets a little rough.

Her sex ached and clenched, and she pressed her thighs together. His admission had done more than pique her curiosity. She couldn’t shut off the idea of Cullen … and her … and rough sex.

So what if they were in his bed and she was aroused and she had shaved her legs? He wasn’t going to make a move, and she sure as hell wouldn’t. Even if she wanted to, it would take more courage than she possessed to make the first move. That kind of forwardness wasn’t in her DNA.

She held herself rigidly beside him through two episodes. The tension didn’t ebb from her body. Her skin felt itchy and tight. Even if she hadn’t already seen these shows, she wouldn’t have been able to focus on the actors. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the rise and fall of his hard chest, the slope of his ridged stomach. The glint of his dog tags above his sternum.

This was insane. Her body was primed and ready to go. It had been four years since she slept with a guy. Since sex. Four years since Jackson broke up with her. Since then, there had only been the occasional kiss on a rare date. Maybe a little fondling over clothes. Her body was a drought and right now Cullen the long-withheld water. She swallowed and scratched at her itchy skin. She couldn’t handle the proximity to him.

She shifted her weight, scooting to the edge of the mattress, as far as she could go without falling. She was never going to relax, and she was stuck here for the entire night. Sleep was impossible.

That was her persistent and final thought, the last she would remember before falling asleep.

Chapter Two

Huntley was asleep.

In his bed.

It was a hell of a situation, and he could not quite wrap his mind around it. The one woman he would never fool around with was in his bed, curled up on her side with her back to him, her skirt riding high enough for him to glimpse her white cotton panties. White cotton panties that shouldn’t have been hot, but for some reason they got him as stiff as a pike. His palms itched to grip the flesh, to discover if her ass felt as firm as it looked.

He cursed and flipped to the History Channel. A war movie was playing. He grimaced. The last thing he wanted to watch, but it might cool his ardor. After thirty seconds of explosions, he cursed and flipped to Comedy Central.

The comedian only held his attention for so long before his gaze strayed to Huntley again. He tapped the remote control anxiously against his leg and eyed the length of her smooth thighs on display. The swell of her ass pushed against the white cotton of her underwear.

She normally wore jeans and bulky sweaters. Blouses when the weather was warmer. He’d never seen so much of her body on display. Never had a clear idea of her shape before. He knew she was tall. Not thin. Not fat. She had always simply been Huntley.

Right now, she reminded him of those pinup girls from the 1940s. Juicy curves. Soft swells and dips and hollows that screamed femininity. He adjusted his cock, hoping to ease the throb there. No relief. Instead, he gave himself a few strokes as he stared at the long stretch of her legs and the two dimples on her lower back, directly above the top of her panties.

“Fuck,” he muttered. Getting a hard-on for his best friend’s sister could not be happening. Beck trusted him. He expected him to treat her with respect. She wasn’t some hook-up.

He should have brought someone home from the bar tonight. A regular at Bombs Away who he’d fucked before who knew how to play the game. It would have been one way to get his mind off Xander, and Huntley wouldn’t have insisted on following him home. He wouldn’t be so cock-hungry for her right now.

Flinging back the covers, he picked up his beer bottle from his nightstand. He deposited it in the trash and shut off all the lights in the house. Moving to his bathroom, he brushed his teeth before flattening his hands on the counter and staring at himself in the mirror.

He never should never have recruited Xander. If he hadn’t, the guy would still be alive. His bloodshot eyes stared daggers back at him. He scrubbed both hands over his face and tried to push back the urge to shout or hit something.

Beck’s words played over and over in his head. He got it wrong. He got it wrong.

Cullen had trained him. Xander wasn’t supposed to get it wrong over there. Maybe Cullen was the one who got it wrong. Maybe he left something out, some key point of instruction. It wouldn’t be the first time he made a bad call. According to his father, he only ever made bad calls. Going into EOD instead of intelligence was his worst. He was twenty-nine years old, but his old man never missed a chance to remind him that he was a total disappointment.

With a disgusted snort, he flipped off the bathroom light and then the TV as he passed it on the way to bed. The room was shrouded in shadows, the only light creeping in from the blind slats. The neighbor had left their back porch light on and a low glow suffused his bedroom, outlining the furniture.

He slipped into bed and turned on his side. Huntley had rolled onto her back, and he watched her chest rise and fall with breaths. She was still stretched out on top of the covers.

Sitting up on one elbow, he lifted her slightly, tugging the comforter all the way down. His nose brushed her hair and he inhaled the fruity scent. Some kind of melon maybe? Strawberry? He resisted the impulse to bury his nose in her hair. “Shit,” he laughed lightly, without mirth. “You need to lay off the booze, man.”