The juncture between my legs tightens and throbs, wetter than I’ve ever felt before.Is this even a normal response, or is there something wrong with me?
“The way you kiss …”
“You like it?” he asks, furrowing his brows, face gloomy, and shields going up.
“It’s criminal,” I confess, eyes searching his, need mounting to the breaking point.
He smiles warmly. “You better go home to Marguerite before I decide to keep you.”
“Decide to keep me?” I scrunch my nose. He brushes his impossibly soft lips over the tip, then claims my mouth again.
“Yeah, because we’re about five minutes away from me sweeping you up into my arms and carrying you back to my place.”
I don’t know how long we stand there, tangled up in heat and want, lips crashing, tongues stroking, until finally he breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against mine.
“Sparky,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I can barely breathe enough to whisper back, “Same.”
He chuckles low, sliding his thumb across my cheekbone, and then, with maddening self-control, steps back.
I shake my head, following and bringing my hand up to his mouth. “Your lips are covered”—rub—“in my lipstick”—swipe. “Although I have to say red is really your color.” My thumb slides over his bottom lip again, the visual transfixing me. I wantsomuch more of this man.
His face darkens, eyes black as night. “I want you to leave your mark on me, Sparky, though I’d rather it were a bite.”
The thought shuttles through me like a thrill, a promise, the possibilities too delicious not to captivate me.
“Oh.” I sigh.
He chuckles low, dangerous, “Better get you home. Let’s see how our jump-starting plan works.”
Reluctantly, I climb behind the wheel, hands still shaking as I twist the key. The engine roars to life. Triumph surges … until my stereo blares at full blast.
The British narrator’s voice fills the night, crisp, mortifyingly precise:“The fireman’s massive, throbbing cock slams into me, an earth-shattering demand …”
My stomach plummets.Kill me now.
“Oh, no, no, no!” I yelp, diving for the dial. My purse, poised on the armrest, flies as I scramble, cheeks hotter than a nuclear meltdown.
Ambrose doesn’t help. He doesn’t even pretend to. He leans against the fender of my car, laughing so hard he has to brace a hand on his knee.
I finally stab the pause button, breathless, horrified. “Please tell me you didn’t hear that.”
His grin is wicked. “Every word. And I’ve got to say … I like where that book was headed?—”
My phone vibrates, and I jump.
I search through the contents strewn across the passenger seat and floor, finding the culprit. The screen reads “Tilly,” and guilt slams into me.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Cat, I know you’re out with the hunky firefighter, but I was just wondering what your ETA is.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I should’ve called sooner. I’m just picking up my car now and then heading your way.”
Chapter
Ten
