Frustration, need, temper, lust. They’d all been bottled up inside him since the first moment he’d seen her. Now that the cork was popped, the passion poured out. He took what he hadn’t allowed himself to want, ravaging her mouth to feed the hunger.

And when she gripped his shoulders and began to tremble, he took more.

They were both breathless when he tore his mouth from hers. For a long moment they stayed as they were, staring at each other, with his hands fisted in her hair, and her fingers digging into his shoulders.

Then their mouths were locked again, a reckless war of lips and tongues and teeth. Her hands tugged at his shirt, his rushed under her sweater. Groping, gasping, they struggled to find more. His back rapped against the refrigerator; her teeth scraped along his neck. He circled around until they bumped the kitchen table. He molded her hips, was about to lift them onto that hard, flat surface.

“Katie, is that fresh coffee I…” Spencer Kimball stopped short in the doorway, slapped hard in the heart by the sight of his baby girl wrapped like a vine around his carpenter.

They broke apart, with the guilty jerk of a child caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

For an awkward, endless five seconds no one spoke nor moved.

“I, ah…” Dear God, was all Spencer could think. “I need to…hmm. In the music room.”

He backed out, walked quickly away.

Brody dragged his hands through his hair, fisted them there. “Oh, God. Get me a gun. I’d like to shoot myself now and get it over with.”

“We don’t have one.” She gripped the back of a ladder-back chair. The room was still spinning. “It’s all right. My father knows I kiss men on occasion.”

Brody dropped his hands. “I was about to do a hell of a lot more than kiss you, and on your mother’s kitchen table.”

“I know.” Wasn’t her pulse still banging like a kettledrum? Couldn’t she see the blind heat of desire in those wonderful eyes of his? “It’s a damn shame Dad didn’t have late classes today.”

“This is not good.” He hissed out a breath, turned on his heel and yanked a glass out of a cupboard. He filled it with cold water from the tap, considered splashing it in his face, then gulped it down instead. It didn’t do much in the way of cooling him off, but it was a start. “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t ticked me off.”

“Ticked you off?” She wanted to smooth down all that streaky hair she’d mussed. Then she wanted to muss it all again. “About what?”

“Then you get me to touch you and you start making sex noises.”

The hell with coffee, she decided, she wanted a drink. “Those weren’t sex noises.” She wrenched open the fridge, took out a bottle of white wine. “Those were muscle relief noises, which, I suppose, could amount to roughly the same thing. Get me down a damn wineglass, because now I’m ticked off.”