Talk Dirty to Me. Dakota Cassidy

can’t—”

      “If you use the words can’t and open in the same sentence referring to that doorknob—”

      “You’ll what?” he huffed, his chest pushing against her back.

      “I’ll suffocate you with one of these fluffy towels.”

      She heard him jiggle the door handle again.

      “Ready your weapon. I. Can’t.”

      Slapping his hand from her waist, Dixie managed to turn around in the tiny space, her nose brushing the springy hairs on his chest. “Let me try.” She twisted the handle, her heart pounding out her body’s awareness of Caine’s. “It’s locked, damn it.”

      “Oh, Sherlock, still such a cracker jack,” Caine cooed in another of his flowing British accents.

      “Oh, Holmes, still just a sidekick with a big mouth.”

      “Move over, Dixie, and let me give it another try.”

      Dixie snorted to the tune of the irritation in his tone. “You do that, Hulk. I’ll wait over here in the two square inches of space, cowering weakly so the big, strong man can save me.”

      They attempted to switch positions only to find themselves so closely fused their bodies were forced to make contact—delicious, heated, full-bodied contact.

      Her slip of a T-shirt left little between them, the material so worn over time it was like having on nothing at all.

      “So now what, Dixie-Cup?” he grumbled huskily, his chin brushing the top of her head.

      Dixie had to close her eyes to keep from swaying as the comfort of the familiar assaulted her. She would not allow her head to move just a hair forward and rest on his chest.

      She gritted her teeth. “Get us out of here before I claw my way past you to get to that door. And stop calling me Dixie-Cup!” Because pettily lashing out was going to make this situation better.

      Caine’s fingertips twitched against hers. Knowing him the way she did, she also knew he was smiling into the dark. “But I’ve always called you Dixie-Cup, Dixie-Cup.”

      “No. Landon called me Dixie-Cup. You called me a liar.” Dixie’s chest tightened with the familiar constriction of his taunts.

      Caine’s fingers wound into the length of her hair, tugging her head back. “You were a liar,” he replied smoothly, yet the edge to his voice was hard...raw.

      Rivulets of sweat began to form between her breasts, and she wasn’t sure if it was panic because the closet was hot and suffocating—or because Caine was. Fear of both made her strike out again. “Move, Caine, or I swear I’ll scream!”

      His response was to drag her to him, her spine arching, driving her against him, a moan rising to her lips when an aching rush of wet heat grew in her cleft. Her body’s reply to him, to the gruff tug of her hair, and the once familiar command it wrought, infuriated her.

      “Go away, Caine. Better yet, go back to Miami.”

      Caine’s silky lips skimmed the darkness. “Like hell, I will. I was here first,” he said, reaching a hand down to grip her hip, drawing her closer to the rigid outline of his cock, sharply defined against his cargo shorts.

      She gave him a shove only to have the sound of the thump of his back hitting the door cut into the darkness. “You don’t want Call Girls. You want to best me so you can flip your middle finger up in the air in my direction while you tell everyone over a round on you at Cooters you whooped mean girl Dixie Davis.”

      “Actually, I was going to buy everyone dinner while I did that. I’m disappointed to find you think me so damn cheap.”

      Don’t take the bait, Dixie. Be the adult. “The point is you want to win.”

      His chuckle was thick to her ears, tipping her off to the fact that she wasn’t alone in her arousal. “Oh, you bet I do. And in the process, adding a multimillion-dollar company to my portfolio won’t make me sad.”

      “A portfolio. Nice luxury if you can get it,” she managed, stifling a breathy sigh when he let go of her hair and cupped the back of her head.

      Caine’s body curved into hers even as his mouth continued its agonizing path upward. “Are things really that bad off, Dixie?”

      Were things really that bad off? Was the sinking of the Titanic just a little boating incident? But Dixie stiffened at his question—the question that sounded warm and sympathetic. Oh, no, sir.

      She wasn’t falling for that old trick. The “draw someone into your web by being a kind shoulder to cry on, then wait for the moment you could use their misfortune to up your own game” trick. She was once the master. “Things are none of your business.”

      “Pride is a sin, Dixie,” Caine murmured into the darkness, his voice growing heavy, his body melting into hers.

      Fight the Caine charisma, Dixie. Fight it like you own a Justice League cape. “Falling for the notion that you’re even a little concerned about me is a sin.” Summoning what was left of her shredding will, she returned her focus to her claustrophobia. It was the lesser of the two evils. The mere thought they’d be stuck together like this until Sanjeev came to tell her breakfast was ready fed her fear.

      Her heart began a panicked staccato. The heat of their bodies coupled with the stifling lack of air served her focus on her claustrophobia mission well. “We have to get out of here, Caine!” She shoved at the solid wall of his chest again. Yet it only made him tighten his hold.