were on this floor of the house all by themselves, and Sawyer was surveying her with lazy amusement, a gleam in his eye.
She raised her chin. “Like Goldilocks, you mean? No, thank you!”
Especially since one of those rooms belonged to Sawyer himself. She didn’t intend to be his latest sexual conquest—even if she was married to him.
“One bowl of porridge may be too hot, another may be too cold,” Sawyer teased. “One bed may be too big, another may be too small and another may be … just right.”
His eyes laughed at her, and he murmured, “Am I remembering the story correctly?”
Damn Sawyer. He’d somehow injected sexual innuendo into a fairy tale.
“I’m not so discriminating,” she said, tight-lipped.
Sawyer quirked a brow. “Really? Let’s put it to the test.”
His hand enveloped hers, and he gently tugged her forward as he pushed open the bedroom door closest to them.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice only slightly breathless.
Peripherally, she noticed they’d stepped into a room with a four-poster queen-size bed and furniture in a gleaming walnut.
Sawyer spun her forward in a dancelike move, and she landed, sitting, on the side of the bed.
Sawyer smiled. “What about this one, Goldilocks?”
“You’re ridiculous!”
“Not me, the bed. Too firm, or too soft?”
She bounced off the bed. “Neither!”
“Just right, then?” he said, irrepressibly. “Are you quite sure?”
Before Tamara could react, Sawyer sat on the bed himself, and pulled her back down to him, his mouth settling on hers.
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