Her frown deepened. Charming, handsome,andobservant; she was at great risk ofnothating him.
He moved closer, his body heat chasing away her cold thoughts.
She swallowed away the sudden dryness in her throat and forced her brows to smooth. “You’re mistaken,” she said.
“Am I?”
He stood so close, his words brushed her cheek, low and rumbled.
She shivered.
Camille held her breath as the tip of his finger traced her chin and trailed up her cheek and to her brow. Their earlier heat from the warehouse rose up, alien and wonderful and terrifying.
He whispered against her temple, “You shouldn’t frown.”
Her body was on fire, her brain a cold machine—mostly. “I’ll do what I like.”
Those burning lips followed his finger’s path across her forehead. “And whatdoyou like?”
Her brain’s focus narrowed. There were only his lips at her cheekbone, his fingers tilting up her chin. And the ache in her belly, growing and charting a wanton path to her core.
Her brain informed her of the word ‘heat.’ An animal husbandry term to describe the sexual awareness of a female. An apt name when the spot between her legs felt like liquid sun.
His lips skimmed the sensitive skin below her ear. “What do you like?”
“You,” she said breathlessly.
His teeth nipped at her lobe. “I like you too.”
She gripped his shoulders to keep upright. “You shouldn’t.” She gasped.
“Neither should you.”
“Then we’re in agreement?”
“Yes.”
His tongue ran the seam of her lips, tempting, taunting.
She flicked his tongue with her own.
He growled low in his throat, but he kept his distance.
Her body trembled, her breath coming in pants. She needed something, something she suspected he withheld. She leaned forward, but he pulled back.
The disappointment felt cold in her chest. “Won’t you kiss me?”
He stiffened. His voice, when he spoke, was low and hungry. “Is that an invitation?”
Lord forgive her. “Yes.”
His smile was dazzling, even in the dark. His fingers worked through the rushed knot at the nape of her neck, loosening the curls until they tumbled around her shoulders. He cupped the back of her head and leaned down to whisper against her lips, “Good.” His lips sealed over hers.
Camille’s body flushed, the heat unbearable. Needing him closer, she gripped the front of his overcoat with one hand and pulled the lapels together until she felt his hard body everywhere.
Every flick of tongue, every brush of skin, was madness. She understood now how some of the women at the Pony said they enjoyed their work. The excuses of kissing she’d suffered in the past had been the artless fumblings of boys. Renard was all man.
Her hips ground against his, seeking pressure, the friction lovely. Back and forth, back and forth. This feeling, this frenzy, was exquisite.
