Backfield in Motion by Boroughs Publishing Group Page A

the
backseat, she tapped out a text message to Bruiser: Not feeling
well. Didn’t want to ruin your night. I got a ride home. Please
enjoy the evening.
    Somebody should.

 
    Chapter 7
Illegal Motion
    Despite it being a very bad idea, Bruiser
left the barbecue just before midnight and drove to Mac’s house.
Probably a little late to be paying a visit, but good sense had
deserted him for some damn reason.
    Bruiser stepped out of his car and was on
the front porch in six long strides. He pounded on the thick wooden
door. “Come on, Mac, open the damn door.”
    A few minutes later, Mac threw the door
open, looking more than little pissed and sexily rumpled, reminding
him of a woman who’d spent the night with her lover. Only she
hadn’t. At least he didn’t think so. He looked over her shoulder
but didn’t see anyone inside. Relief swept through him.
    He liked her like this—not that he didn’t
like her all dressed up, too. This was his Mac. The real
Mac. Her face scrubbed free of makeup. Her flawless skin au
naturel. Her golden hair in a haphazard ponytail. Unlike the beauty
of earlier in the evening, he could handle this Mac. At least, he
hoped he could.
    “What the hell do you want?” She rubbed her
eyes and glared at him.
    He squinted into the bright porch light. “I
came to see if you’re okay.” Lame, Mackey, really lame.
    “Of course I’m okay. Now, good night.” She
tried to push the door shut.
    He stuck his foot in it. “If you’re okay,
why did you leave the barbecue before dinner?”
    “I wasn’t hungry.” She wouldn’t meet his
gaze.
    Bruiser rolled his eyes, pushed his way
inside, and plopped down the couch. He glanced around the cozy
little living room and liked what he saw. Definitely a homey place,
the kind a guy would look forward to coming home to after a long
day at work. Neat and tidy without being overly so; the room didn’t
fit his image of Mac. In fact, he saw a woman’s touch reflected in
the attention to detail and the placement of the country-style
accessories. But then Mac was a woman, a fact of which he’d
been painfully reminded tonight.
    Grabbing the remote, he switched to ESPN and
made himself at home, even though he hadn’t a clue why he was doing
it. He grinned, goaded by Mac’s annoyed expression. “Nice house.”
He gave her the once over and his gaze stalled out in the vicinity
of her tits. Holy fuck, she had a nice rack on her. Not that he
hadn’t noticed earlier, but hell, she’d traded in her party clothes
for a long, form-fitting tank top with no bra. Her nipples stood
out against the thin material, like they were happy to see him. He
sure as hell was happy to see them.
    Catching him gawking, Mac quickly crossed
her arms over her chest, which hiked up the bottom of her shirt. A
nice pair of red lace panties peeked out from her jeans. Lace? Mac?
Well, he’d be damned. Bruiser tried not to smirk but failed
miserably, which seemed to piss her off even more. Pissed-off women
possessed a lot of passion when channeled in the right direction,
and a pissed-off Mac turned him on. Way too much.
    Coming here had been a bad idea. He should
just leave. A black cat that looked like a refugee from a losing
battle sat on the arm of the couch and sized him up, cocking his
head to see him out of his one good eye. Bruiser was pretty sure
the cat found him lacking. He didn’t much like cats. His mother had
had cats when he was growing up. The little shits made it their job
to torture him every chance they got. He leveled the cat with a
leave-me-the-fuck-alone glare. The cat glared back, as if to say, My house, buddy. Not yours.
    Mac stood nearby, not seeming to care that
she wasn’t exactly dressed for company. She propped her hands on
her hips. Bruiser licked his lips as her chest rose and fell,
mesmerizing him. He loved the challenge of a pissy woman, loved to
cajole them into bed and turn them into putty in his experienced
hands.
    “You need to go.”
    He shrugged one