“Any more of that and we won’t make it to door three.” He stepped back, and she released him.

He took her elbow and helped her stand. Grabbing a condom from the bedside table, he sank into the chair and ran his hands all the way down her arms, to her hips, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of her shorts. He pulled her to him and placed an openmouthed kiss right on her center, applying just enough tongue to make her gasp. Burying his face against the soft cotton, he did it again, only this time her hips shifted forward, and he could taste her arousal on his lips.

“More,” she moaned.

People pleaser that he was, he tugged the hem of her shorts down, just below the V of her thighs and gave her more. Right up the middle. From the center to top in one swipe of the tongue. On the third pass he felt her stomach tremble and her legs began to give out.

He peeled her shorts down to the floor, kissing her knee, thigh, stomach, before pulling her onto his lap and kissing her lips.

Frankie straddled him and sank down, her wet, hot skin settling over his tip. She took the condom off the table and, after a whole lot of stroking and teasing, slid it home. Then with a smile, that if he were being honest scared him as much as it turned him on, she reached down and pulled the chair’s lever.

The seat tilted back. Frankie tilted forward, her hands braced on either side of his head, and, Jesus, those incredible breasts were situated right in his face.

“Whoever invented this chair deserves an award,” he said, because all he had to do was lean up and—oh, yeah. She smelled like wine, bold and spicy, and tasted even better. And she was definitely a D.

Nate had never considered himself a breast man—he usually went for legs, which Frankie had in spades—but there was something about her breasts, something that he hoped to spend days figuring out.

Frankie, however, had other plans, because she arched her back and sank down, and slowly pushed until he was all the way inside of her. They both stopped breathing, stopped moving, and for a second took in the moment. Then Frankie started moving.

She rose up only to sink deliciously back down, taking even more of him. Her hips moved faster, harder, and breathing seemed to piss off his chest so he gave up on it. She let out a low throaty moan and closed her eyes and all Nate could do was watch her. The way her hair tumbled around her shoulders, her mouth parted as she let loose sweet little moans of pleasure, how she was two seconds away from exploding in his arms.

She was so damn beautiful.

“I’m going to,” she gasped. “I need to…”

“Me too.”

Nate gripped her hips, and rose up, moving faster and deeper. He wanted to make this last, but then her thighs started squeezing his, and she started making these noises that drove him out of his fucking mind, and he started thrusting harder.

The pressure built, but he held himself in check, barely, determined for her to go over first. He slid his hand between their bodies, rubbing his thumb back and forth over where they were joined. He felt her stiffen, take in a breath and hold it.

“Come on, Francesca, let go.”

And thank God she did. She arched back, pushed down as he was coming up and her breath exploded from her lungs. Her walls clenched around him, nearly strangling his dick until it throbbed and Nate gave one final thrust and felt all the blood rush south. Then everything went black and he collapsed against the chair, while Frankie collapsed against him.

After he was able to breathe without gasping, he grabbed a tissue from the side table and cleaned up. Placing a kiss to the top of her head, he whispered into her hair, “That was incredible. You were incredible.”

Her face was pillowed into his chest and all he could hear was the steady rhythm of her breathing. He ran a hand down her back to cup her butt and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Frankie?”

Her answer was to burrow further into his chest and let out a soft, sleepy sigh. Nate gave a sigh of his own, grabbed the matching afghan off the back of the chair and, pulling her tightly to him, covered them.

After a while his legs started to go numb and his cheeks began to hurt. He was grinning. He knew it and yet he couldn’t stop. Then Frankie shifted, her lean arms sliding around his middle and he decided he didn’t care.

* * *

A pounding came from right outside Frankie’s window followed by pounding in her head. She cracked open her eyes and winced; the sun was barely peeking through her window, yet managed to pierce her right through the retina. She rolled over and—

“Holy poppycock,” she groaned, grabbing her forehead. But it didn’t help. Her mouth felt as though she’d spent the evening grooming Mittens—with her tongue—and pain pushed through the top of her head right down to her toes, making the pink shag chair even more nauseating than ever.

Shag chair?

Her hands did a quick morning-after pat down and—yup. She was alone, in Nate’s bed, totally naked.

She struggled to piece together last night. She had only managed to get to the part where Nate found her on the porch having a pity party for one, which turned into a sex party for two, which led to the shag chair, and somehow bed—his bed, which explained the allergic reaction she was currently experiencing—when another crash shot through the air.

This time it vibrated the entire house and was followed by a pissed off bleating and several hostile warks.

“No, Mittens!” In one motion Frankie was on her feet and headed for the front door. She grabbed a clean top and bottoms—both neatly folded in the basket on her bed—and slipped into her boots on the way. According to the clock it was nearly ten, which meant Mittens would be hungry. “Not this time.”

Images of horse teeth chewing through the side of the new tank flashed as she raced down the hall, past the now re-organized pantry, snagging a box of Pop Tarts, and out the front door.

“Don’t do it, Mittens,” she hollered, but not angrily. Because it wasn’t the alpaca’s fault that he was forced to dine on plastic and vinyl for breakfast. He was a nervous eater, Frankie knew that, and yet last night she had kind of yelled at him for nibbling at her new lemon tree and then, in her hormone induced haze, forgot to brush him before bed, something that had become kind of a ritual. “I’ve got your breakfast.”

But as Frankie stood there, on the porch, waiving the foil wrapped toaster pastry as though it were her kid’s lunchbox, she realized that Mittens wasn’t anywhere near the tank. Nope, her shy alpaca was nickering and prancing behind Nate, who stood by a semi that held the enormous water tank, although at fifty-thousand gallons it was more of a tower.

Nate turned around to look at her and, one hand on his hip while the other slid Mittens a carrot top, gave Frankie an amused grin. A ball cap was pulled low on his head, shading his eyes and the lower half of his face. Instead of his usual polo, khakis, and loafers, he wore a grey t-shirt and a pair of loose cargo shorts that hung from his lean hips. Sweet Jesus, the man was dirty, sweaty, and looked like your basic, sexy-grape-grower for hire.

“Morning, sweet cheeks,” he drawled as he walked toward her, his stride slow and easy.

She wasn’t sure if it was the casual clothes or the dirt under his nails or seeing him in his element yesterday and nothing but shag last night, but Nate, like this, all manly and undone, was a sight to behold.

He stopped at the bottom of the front stoop and, flipping the bill of his cap backward, his heated brown eyes traveled from her face to her mouth and down her chest where it hung for a long, intense moment. His gaze felt like a gentle caress of sheer male appreciation, skimming over her hips and down her legs, making her heart flutter a little—and leaving her feeling ridiculously feminine.

“You look like—”

“Shit?” Frankie said with a self-conscious laugh. Hating how hard it was to breathe. She didn’t do feminine and she didn’t do morning afters for a reason. She sucked at both of them.

He walked up the steps, not bothering to stop until he was all in her space. Sweaty from shoveling dirt, he looked so big and imposing and so—manly. Nate DeLuca, uptight, loafer owner, looked manly. God, he even smelled manly.

“I was going to say, half asleep. You can barely hold your eyes open.” He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear and she forgot how to breathe all together. “Long night?”

Feeling way too dainty and too vulnerable, she batted his hand away and leveled him with her most intimidating glare. Only he didn’t look intimidated, or leveled. The jerk actually smiled. It was a slow, sexy tilting of the lips that had her nipples breaking out the party poppers. Nate noticed.

“Who says I’m tired?”

“Honey, you’re standing on the front porch in nothing but an epic case of bedhead, my shirt, lace and—” He looked down and, party poppers in full effect, there went that smile and—when he looked up at her through his eyebrows—that annoying fluttering. “There is a crew of about ten guys who are all silently hoping you’ll notice you forgot to tie your boots and bend over, making it a great morning.”

Palms flat against his chest, she rolled up on her tiptoes, looked over his shoulder and—yup, a construction crew of ten, including Hard Hammer Tanner, stood silently watching. Smiling. A few of the guys tipped their hats in greeting. Tanner raised a hand and waved as though a half-naked client welcoming his crew was a normal occurrence in his line of work.

Frankie waved back. “Yeah, well I don’t care.”