Now that remark got under his skin a little. “For the record, my type doesn’t try to ‘sneak in.’ I’m always upfront about the fact that I’m not looking for a long-term commitment.”

Her smile was sweet, her tone dry. “Aw, and that makes you such a good guy. Because you’re honest about being a womanizer.”

And . . . now she was getting under his skin a lot. “So you’d rather I lie?” He angled his body to face hers. “That I date a woman for a couple months, string her along, and then tell her that I don’t want anything serious? Would that make me a good guy?” He leaned in closer to her. “See, this is why I don’t date women in their thirties. You’re jaded. And ornery. And you have a checklist with thirty-four goddamn things on it!”

She turned toward him, her cheeks flushed pink as she, too, raised her voice. “Don’t put this on me. There’s a reason women like me need a thirty-four-item checklist—to protect ourselves from all the guys like you out there.”

“What’s so terrible about a guy like me? Here’s the way I see it: if you’re looking for happily-ever-after, there are a lot better guys out there for the job. But if you want a good time, then I’m your man, baby.”

“I’ll say this, you’re nothing if not confident.”

Hell, yes, he was—and for good reason. He peered down into her eyes. “I would rock your world, Sinclair, and you know it.”

It was about right then that he noticed they were sitting just inches apart on the grass. But she didn’t move, and neither did he.

“Ah, yes. Your supposed ‘moves.’” She emphasized the word with a saucy tilt of her head. “That certain . . . something that puts the ‘special’ in Special Agent Vaughn Roberts.”

That mouth. Her sarcastic words pushed all his buttons, but he nevertheless couldn’t stop staring at her full, tempting lips. He lowered his head, his voice dipping lower. “Want to know what I think?”

She paused for a moment, as if taking in his proximity. He could hear the quickening of her breath.

“Not especially,” she said.

The words were quintessential snarky Sidney Sinclair, but the husky tone of her voice was something new. Something that drew him in even more. “I think you’re worried that if I kiss you right now, you might actually like it.”

Her eyes flashed—with anger, no doubt, but also with a heat that came from somewhere else.

And before Vaughn even thought about what he was doing, he kissed her.

He pressed her lips open as his mouth moved demandingly over hers, all his frustration, his irritation, and his aggravation pouring into this one kiss. His tongue swept roughly around hers—not bothering with either sweetness or sophistication—and he felt her hands press against his chest. He braced himself for the shove, for her to push him away, but instead she gripped his T-shirt and pulled him closer and oh sweet lord she was kissing him back.

All of his restraint just . . . broke.

He grabbed her and pulled her into his lap, her denim-clad legs straddling his thighs. He tangled his hand in her hair as their mouths furiously melded together. She bit his lower lip, then sucked on the spot and licked her tongue over it in a way that had his c**k straining against the zipper of his jeans.

He growled low in his throat and pushed her to the ground.

She moaned when he settled between her legs, and the sound only incited him more. He took her mouth possessively, voraciously, one hand gripping the nape of her neck as she battled him kiss for kiss. Needing to taste more of her, he angled his head and trailed his lips along the smooth skin of her neck, tugging her hair back to expose more. She dug her nails into his back, through his T-shirt, so he nipped her with his teeth, right at the base of her neck. She gasped and arched her back, then bent one knee, settling him deeper between her legs, and slowly she began rocking her hips against his throbbing erection.

Fuck.

His breath was a ragged hiss, his mouth claiming hers once more. She pushed her br**sts eagerly against his chest, and all he could think about was sucking one of them into his mouth as he shoved her jeans down, yanked open his fly, and took her hard against the ground, making her scream his name as he—

“Vaughn!”

The voice—Simon’s, coming from the backyard—made them both jump and pull apart.

They stared at each other, panting and wide-eyed.

“Oh, no,” Sidney said. “You and I can’t . . . I mean, we so, so couldn’t . . . you know.” She gestured between them, her lips swollen from his kisses, her cheeks flushed, and her glorious auburn hair spilling wildly over her shoulders.

Vaughn touched his mouth, still trying to wrap his mind around whatever the hell had just happened.

Simon called his name again, sounding closer this time.

Instantly, he moved into undercover mode. “Just act natural,” he told Sidney. He reached over and picked a few wildflower petals out of her hair, speaking calmly. “We’re two people looking at a nice view. That’s all. You and I fell into a conversation about the wedding, and we started talking about the possibility of coordinating the dates for the bachelor and bachelorette parties. We thought that Isabelle and Simon might want to have them on the same night, given the time crunch.”

“Right. Bachelorette party. Got it.” Sidney exhaled, gathering herself.

Vaughn’s gaze fell to the curve of her neck. “You have a red mark.” He fixed her hair, moving it forward over her shoulders. “You might have to keep your hair down for the rest of the weekend.”