Page 63 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

He grinned. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”

“Your American one is better.”

With a laugh, he raised his arm and placed his hat on his head. “And on that note, I will take me leave of you.”

Monet’s stomach dropped. She stood frozen, the lump back in her throat. “You’re going?”

He nodded. “Have to, love.Youdo things to me. If I’d flown halfway ’round the world to attend a grazier’s convention, I’d have you buck naked and flat on your back in that bedroom of yours before you could say cowboy.” A smoldering light flared in his eyes at the claim, and Monet had to bite back a groan. “But I flew halfway ’round the world to meet your friend, which means everything I want to do to you—which is a lot, none of it platonic, most of it filthy—I can’t. Not until I talk to her.”

Another groan of frustrated need and confusion threatened to escape Monet. She stared at him, for the first time in her life wishing to God she were a horrible, selfish person who didn’t care one little bit if she hurt her best friend.

But you do care. Right?

“At least let me feed you first.”

The offer tumbled from her lips before she even realized it had formed in her deluded, misguided brain.

Dylan gazed at her silently.

Monet’s lips tingled and she caught the bottom one with her teeth.

And then, the muscles in his jaw knotting, Dylan nodded. “Sure.”

Chapter5

The smell of toast wafting from Monet’s kitchen filled Dylan’s mouth with saliva. It had been ages since he’d eaten. He sat on the paisley sofa watching her move about the small area, his legs loosely spread, knees bent, his arms stretched along the backrest.

She was as conflicted and confused as he was. He didn’t need to look into her eyes to see it. He could feel it in her body when he’d kissed her, he could hear it in her voice when she’d asked him to stop.

Which meant saying yes to her offer of food was downright bloody stupid. And dangerous.

So why did you agree?

He let out a slow breath. Because he was a masochist.

A horny male, don’t you mean? Letting your dick do your thinking for you?

Yeah, there was that too. But when Monet had offered food the thought of sitting down and sharing a meal with her as they chatted about inconsequential things was too tempting to resist.

He’d force himself to keep his hands off her. It wasn’t going to be easy, but he would. Hell, he hadn’t eaten since the flight from Sydney to LA, crammed between an old man whose head constantly fell onto Dylan’s shoulder every time he went to sleep and a woman who asked Dylan over and over again if he knew Russell Crowe. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t being himself? He hadn’t eaten and he hadn’t slept. He’d been awake for well over twenty-four hours now. Surely that explained it all?

Oh yeah, jet-lagged induced cheating-bastard lust. Sure. Makes perfect sense.

He was close to exhaustion, bloody close, but when Monet had smiled at him and told him to stay where he was while she prepared their meal, he’d simply smiled back and said, “Ta muchly.”

Now as he watched her, he was wondering what the hell he’d been thinking. Any fatigue he felt was vanishing quickly just at the sight of her, replaced with a charged energy he knew had everything to do with the way Monet was dressed as she fixed them something to eat. A snug T-shirt covered her upper body, an image of the face-hugger fromAlienwrapped around Leonardo da Vinci’s face on its front. Baggy black tracksuit pants hung low from her curved hips, low enough for him to spy the twin dimples on either side of the base of her spine. Low enough for him to notice the almost flat plane of her belly peeking from beneath her shirt hem.

He knew the clothes weren’t meant to be sexy, but bloody hell, he was damn near half hard. He wanted to walk over to her, lift her onto the kitchen counter and bury himself in her sex.

Before he could ponder the thought, Monet turned and crossed back to the sofa, two plates stacked with toast in her hands.

The smell hit him first. Distinctive and salty. He dropped his stare to the plate. “Is this…” He looked back at Monet for a second, down at the meal she’d prepared him and then back to her again, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Is this Vegemite?”

Monet nodded, her own smile curling her lips. “It is. You sent Annie a jar a while ago. She hated it. I meanhatedit. But me?” She picked up a slice of toast, lavishly spread with the Australian delicacy, raised it to her mouth and took a very large, enthusiastic bite.

It was, quite possibly, the horniest thing Dylan had seen yet.

“I know the rest of my country thinks this stuff tastes like crap,” Monet mumbled around a mouthful of toast, “but I love it.”

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