her waist and lifted her into the truck.
She let out an alarmed squeak. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Seeing that you get home safely,” he said, climbing in beside her.
“This is totally uncalled for.” Glaring at him, she slid over to the passenger side. “I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Watch me.” He gave her a stern look in an effort to stop any further protest, but she completely ignored it. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he jammed the key into the ignition.
“Are you this controlling with everyone?” she asked.
Dylan tried counting to ten, then twenty. At thirty he gave up. “Lady, you could drive Job over the edge. You complain about an old man’s innocent gesture of friendship and then go walking down a dark street at night, inviting all kinds of trouble.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do.”
Gunning the engine, he spun gravel and squealed the tires as he steered the truck away from the curb. He cringed as he imagined the chips the rocks had made in the paint job. He and his dad had spent several years restoring the old Chevy, and Jack Chandler was probably looking down from heaven right now, ready to sling a couple of lightning bolts Dylan’s way for treating the truck with such irreverence.
He glanced over at the woman beside him. And it was all her fault, too. She was making him crazy and causing him to do things he hadn’t done in years. The last time he’d laid rubber had been when he was nineteen and full of more piss and vinegar than good sense.
Fuming, Brenna stared out the passenger window. Dylan was probably right about her walking home alone in the dark, but she’d be darned if she let him know it.
Why did men think they knew what was best for a woman? What made them think that a woman was incapable of making her own decisions?
Tom had always been that way, had always tried to tell her what she should do. And it appeared Dylan Chandler was cut from the same cloth.
When he pulled up in front of her house, she prepared to get out of the truck. “Thank you for the ride. But I have to tell you, your behavior borders on Neanderthal, Sheriff. I—”
“That may be,” he interrupted. “But I’m proud to say this caveman can go to bed tonight with a clear conscience.” At her raised eyebrow, he had the audacity to grin. “I saw that you got home safe and sound.”
“Before you know it, you’ll be spouting the code of chivalry, straight from the Round Table,” she retorted.
As she reached for the door handle, Dylan caught her wrist and leaned close. “There’s nothing wrong with a man protecting a woman from the dangers she’s either too naive or too stubborn to recognize for herself.”
“The woman in question might just be a black belt in karate, and able to take care of herself,” she bluffed, trying to ignore the tingling sensations from his touch, his nearness.
The close confines of the truck cab seemed to grow even smaller and a crazy fluttering started deep in her stomach. His lips were only a few inches from hers. She needed space.
“I appreciate your concern, but—”
“Hush,” Dylan said, his deep baritone vibrating against her lips a moment before his mouth brushed hers.
At first he teased with featherlight kisses, nibbling, testing her willingness to allow the caress to continue. But when he traced her lips with his tongue, all thought of putting distance between them ceased. Her own tongue automatically darted out to ease the tingling friction of his exploration, but coming into contact with the rough tip of his, the flutters in her stomach went absolutely wild.
At the moment, it didn’t seem to matter that she shouldn’t be kissing him, tasting him with eager abandon. She was too caught up in the many sensations racing through her to even breathe. When she finally did, the mingled scents of leather, spicy cologne and Dylan caused her nostrils to flare. She didn’t think she’d ever smelled anything quite so sensuous, so sexy, so wonderful as the man gathering her to him.
He pulled her unresisting body closer and, trapped between them, her hands clenched his shirt. The firm muscles beneath flexed and bunched at her touch, and his heart pounded against her fingertips. Heat and excitement simultaneously coursed through her when Dylan’s tongue penetrated the inner recesses of her mouth. Exploring. Claiming.
Dylan Chandler was the very last man she should be kissing, she thought, her sanity intruding. He was arrogant, controlling and macho from the top of his handsome head, all the way to his big, booted feet. And he was kissing her like she’d never been kissed before.
The intensity of passion might have gotten the better of Dylan, had the steering wheel digging into his ribs not reminded him of where they were. He hadn’t necked in the cab of a pickup truck since his senior year in high school. He briefly wished he’d driven the Explorer to town, instead of the truck. It had more room to maneuver. But then, Corny and her hens would have had a field day talking about the sheriff making out in the sheriff’s patrol car with the new painting teacher.
Regaining control of his sanity, he leisurely broke the kiss. He’d kissed his share of women, but nothing in his past experience could compare with the wild, untamed feelings he had coursing through him now. He felt like pounding his chest and bench pressing a dump truck.
Hell, he just might have to in order to work off the adrenaline. There were kisses, and then there were kisses. And on a scale of one to ten, he’d have to rate this one a fifteen. Maybe even a twenty. Definitely an off-the-scale experience.
His hand shook slightly as he cupped the back of Brenna’s head and gently pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “Wow!”
“That shouldn’t have happened,” she said breathlessly.
“No, it shouldn’t have,” he said honestly.
What the hell did he think he was doing? The woman was trouble from the top of her pretty head all the way to her little feet. Hadn’t he learned his lesson five years ago?
The best thing he could do would be to see that she got into the house, then get back in his truck and put as many miles between them as the old Chevy would take him.
“I’ll walk you to the porch,” he said, releasing her.
She reached for the door handle. “It isn’t necessary.”
But Dylan was out of the cab and around the front of the truck in a flash. When he opened the door and helped her down from the bench seat, he could tell she was going to protest again.
Placing his hand at her back, he ushered her toward the front porch. “My dad made me promise a long time ago that I’d be a gentleman at all times. And that includes walking a lady to the door when I take her home.”
“But you were only giving me a ride.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said stubbornly. “You’re a lady. I drove
