She allowed herself to devour him with her eyes, making no qualms about being obvious—after all, this was about sex, and she intended to make that clear in every possible way. Faded denim traced long, powerful thighs and accented a narrow waist. A button-down, navy-blue Western shirt outlined an equally impressive chest and, no doubt, covered a still impressive set of abs. He’d always had rock-hard, drool-worthy abs. And there was no denying, with Bobby’s maturity, he’d become primitively sexual on some level she’d never consciously noticed before now.
But then, he wasn’t the only one who’d matured. She was a woman, not a girl. She knew what she wanted and it was him. So did several other females gathering nearby, twentysomethings Jennifer didn’t know, already tipsy and on the make for a man. They stared at him and giggled. But his eyes found Jennifer’s, boldly telling, boldly sensual.
The music changed again to Marvin Gaye singing “let’s make love tonight.” She and Bobby stared at each other another second until they both smiled, and she knew they were both thinking the same thing—that they were going to make love tonight. The idea of sharing the same unspoken understanding in the middle of a crowd wasn’t new for them—it was simply history. Working the moment, playing the seduction game, Jennifer turned away, knowing Bobby would join her. Anticipating it as eagerly as she was the prospect of stripping him naked and having her way with him. Well. Maybe not quite that much. But the process of getting from dressed to undressed was going to be oh so fun. It always was. She was going to let herself enjoy it. Oh, yes. Seducing Bobby was fun.
Marcie’s wicked, mischief-filled expression settled on Jennifer. “We’ll start getting the games together,” she suggested, lacing her fingers with Mark’s. “You enjoy yours.”
Oh, she planned to, Jennifer thought.
Marcie and Mark disappeared about the time Bobby sauntered to Jennifer’s side.
Jennifer inhaled his scent, awareness shimmering down her spine, as if her body had been conditioned to recognize his presence, and even that scent, as erotic. Oh, man. It had been a long time since she’d felt warm, wet heat spread between her thighs at the simple knowledge that a man she wanted was nearby.
Steeling herself for what would surely be another blast of white-hot arousal, she turned to face him. “You made it,” she said in a remarkably unaffected voice, and motioned with her glass. “Drink?” She waved a hand at the table. “Or something to eat?”
“Just you,” he said, stepping within inches of where she stood, inside the personal space reserved for lovers. As if he assumed he had that right before adding, in a low, husky voice bordering on possessive, “I came for you, Jennifer.”
Jennifer’s reaction was sudden, intense—all the white heat, pooling low and wicked in her stomach. “You came for Mark and Marcie,” she corrected. “Like the rest of the guests.”
“I’m going to the wedding for Mark and Marcie,” he said, pinning her in a wicked stare. “I’m at this party to see you. The same reason I arrived for the wedding two weeks early.”
No. She didn’t want to hear that. Nor did she want to feel the twist in her gut, or the adrenaline surging inside her and setting her heart to thundering in her ears. Jennifer told herself to be as cool and unemotional as when she dealt with worried pet owners. She wouldn’t react. It served no point.
But she did react. Before she could stop herself, she laughed, the sound crackling with a hint of bitterness she didn’t want to admit existed. Jennifer tipped back her champagne and finished it off, trying to bite back words, the bubbles tickling her nose. Being the lightweight she was, she could tell it was going to go right to her head. She set the empty flute on the table, emotion welling in her chest, resentment with it.
Her hand flattened on the warm, hard wall of his chest, and she rose to her toes and brought her mouth an inch from his. She could almost taste him, and despite her anger, wanted just that. To taste him, to forget, to get lost.
“When you try to explain why you’re here or why you left,” she said, her voice a thick whisper, “I get mad, Bobby. So, if you want me, stop talking.”
He covered her hand with his, his eyes dark, heavy-lidded. “I want you,” he said, “but I won’t stop talking until you hear what I have to say. And if that means you have to get mad, well, get mad. I can handle it.”
“I can’t,” she said. “So I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner, and not until.” She tried to shove him away.
He tugged her back, pulled her hard against his body, his hand molding her close. “We aren’t done here yet.”