"You could tell them all to go to hell," Clay suggested.
Regan gasped, her mouth falling open in astonishment. "I could never to that."
He took a step toward her, dipping his head a fraction and fixing her with a determined glare. "Sure you could. You just say, 'Go to hell.' Try it."
An appalled puff of air escaped her lungs. "I couldn't."
With her back to the barn wall, Clay took the opportunity to move closer, laying his hands flat against the rough planks on either side of her head.
"What are you doing?" she rasped.
"Maybe you just need the proper motivation," he told her, slanting his head to one side and studying her mouth. "I'm thinking about kissing you, Regan Doyle. And if you don't want that, then you're going to have to tell me, plain and simple, to go to hell."
Her eyes widened and she kept her gaze locked on his lips as they descended toward her own. He stopped a hairbreadth from her mouth, giving her one last chance to deter him.
Her fingers curled into his shirt. Her breathing was shallow.
"Too late," he murmured as he captured her lips with his own.