Oh, then Luc kisses me, and the only sound in my mouth is the sweet, low melding of his moan as it mixes with mine. His kiss is gentle at first, but it grows in fervor until my whole body melts into his, my insides going warm and liquid.
Luc is the kind of man who kisses with his whole mouth. He uses his lips and teeth and tongue. Stroking, sucking, tasting. His hands are in my hair, on my face, at my waist, pulling me closer until I’m helpless to resist. Not that I want to.
I have no idea how long we stand on the sidewalk, Luc doing a pretty bang-up job of making up for years of unquenched longing, but someone walking down the other side of the street finally shouts, “Get a room!”
It’s enough to break the spell.
When we pull apart, I’m breathing like I’ve run a race. Luc’s hair is in complete disarray, sticking up all over his head.
Did I do that?
Most men would look boyish. But it makes him look even more rakish.
Nowthat’sa word I thought only existed in romance novels. It’s also the only one that manages to capture Luc in this moment.
“I reckon…” He has to stop and swallow. His voice sounds like a gravel road. “I better get going.”
Every single one of my nerve endings is sizzling. Ifeelevery inch of my skin, and it wants to be touched, wants to be kissed. It simplywants.
“What if I don’t want you to go?” I whisper, my heart pounding. My stomach turning somersaults.
He groans and pulls me against him again, claiming my mouth in a kiss that threatens to light my soul on fire. There’s a question in the pressure of his lips, in the smooth glide of his tongue. I have the answer.
Yes.
Chapter Eighty-five
______________________________________
Luc
Intimacy isn’t only physical. It’s knowing the heart and soul and mind of another.
I know Maggie. Everything about her from the way she cries at ASPCA commercials to her favorite color of toenail polish—Tempest Blue. I know she likes to sing “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch”while she’s taking a shower. I know that even though she claims strawberry ice cream is her favorite (because it was her mother’s favorite), she actually prefers butter pecan.
And right now I know she wants me.
It’s there in her eyes when she unlocks her door and beckons me inside. It’s there in her shy smile when she turns on the overhead light and blinks against the glare. It’s there in the catch of her breath when I place my hand on her waist.
I want her too.
Good God, do I want her.
But are we going too fast? I don’t want to screw things up. She said this was the best first date ever. Should I quit while I’m ahead? Turn around and march right back through her door?
She grabs by hand and pulls me across the kitchen into her bedroom. My feet follow her willingly. So does my heart. It’s my head that’s the problem.
I’m thinking too much.
Or not enough.
Damn, I don’t know anymore.
Kicking out of her shoes, she groans and wiggles her bare toes against the rug as if trying to get feeling back into them. It occurs to me that one thing Idoknow is how to give a good foot massage.
“Go sit on the bed, and I’ll rub your feet,” I tell her.
She arches an eyebrow. “Bossy much?”
