She holds upThe Cowboy’s Passionate Embrace,followed byThe Mountain Man’s Heated ObsessionandThe Firefighter’s Curvy Rescue. A good twenty more books lie in piles in her lap and around her. They’re but a small dent in my acquisitions this week.
“I hope you haven’t already read them all,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Ambrose, these are not Space Operas,” she scolds.
“Nope.”
“I don’t know what’s wilder. You buying these for me, or you knowing what kinds of books I read.” She buries her beet-red face in her hands.
I set the wine glasses and bottle down on the coffee table in front of us, moving a stack of books, so I can sit next to her. I sit closer than I probably should, need driving me like a thirsty horse to water.
I love her so much, I can barely breathe. No woman has ever made me feel this way. I long, with every part of my being, to show her how she makes me feel, to gift her back some of the heady passion her presence floods me with.
My knee grazes her hip, leaving trails of fire in its wake, and I grab her hands gently, urging them down and her gaze towards me.
She bites her thick bottom lip, eyes swirling with longing. “You didn’t read them, did you?”
“Sparky, I got more than an earful the other night. Though yes, I did read a couple of them during downtime at work. You should’ve heard the crap the guys gave me.”
“But why would you do that?” she asks, cheeks radiating heat. The pulse point in her neck flutters, and I fight the urge to feather my lips over it.
Instead, I settle for bringing a hand up to her neck and stroking the soft skin along the front with my thumb. She whimpers, body trembling at my caress, confirming something I’ve suspected all week.
It’s not quite time for this conversation, though. I can tell she already feels self-conscious. Instead, I murmur the answer to her earlier question. “I read them because I want to know what you like. What turns you on.”
She swallows hard against my thumb. I wonder if she can hear the timpani drum pounding in my chest as my pulse races, need coursing and swirling inside.
“I’m a virgin,” she admits softly, looking away.
My chest squeezes. Not because I mind, but because the trust in her voice slays me.
I bring my other hand up, snagging my finger under her chin. Her eyelids flutter, her nostrils flaring, and her eyes dilating into two ebony pools. “I thought so.”
“I know it makes me sound kind of lame. I’ve never been much into dating, though.”
“Good, because I can’t stand the thought of another man touching you,” I growl.
Her pupils blow wide, dark hunger staring back at me. This girl likes it when I get possessive. Thank God because whatever she’s done to me has me so jealous and so overprotective, I don’t know what to do with myself.
Pulling back before I totally lose the battle with desire, I notice the flicker of disappointment that washes over her face. If she knew how my self-control hangs by a few fraying threads … I pour the wine, handing her a glass before taking the second.
We drink while watching the crackling golden flames of the fire. Usually, a silence like this would make me feel awkward. But with Catalina, I don’t have to act or pretend to be someone I’m not.
“It’s the same for me, you know. When I saw the women lining up tonight to talk to you. You have no idea how jealous it made me, Ambrose.”
I set my glass down.
“Oh, yeah?” I inch closer, bringing my hand up to stroke her petal-soft cheek and run my finger over her jawline. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, I ask, “How about we take your grandma up on her suggestion and dance?”
“We have all the time in the world for that, Ambrose,” Catalina says, poising her wine glass on the coffee table. Her gaze burns as she adds, “But first I need you. So much I can barely think.”
For a heartbeat, she hesitates, breath shallow, eyes darting over my mouth like she’s testing whether she dares. That pause nearly wrecks me because when she moves, I know it’s choice, not impulse. Crawling towards me, she hikes up her skirt, throwing a leg over my lap and straddling me.
Pure fire.Like everything about this sassy, courageous, headstrong woman.
My hands grab her waist possessively, squeezing the tops of her ample hips. “Thank goodness because I’m burning alive over here, Sparky.”
She palms my cheeks, soft fingers making scratchy noises as she explores my five o’clock shadow. “But aren’t firefighters supposed to put out blazes instead of start them?” she teases, lifting her skirt a little higher so that she can grind over my rock-hard cock with her hot, moist panties.
