Page 41 of Protect and Serve

And to be honest, he was nervous.

He wanted this to be right.

He wanted this to be perfect.

“There.” Claire wiped down the table and dropped the dish towel on the counter. “Done.” She turned to him with an expectant expression.

He stared at her. She was so beautiful and he wanted her so badly, but he’d built this night up in his mind to such monumental proportions, he wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. So he opened his arms and said simply, “Claire.”

Thank God she smiled. She smiled and walked into his embrace and tipped up her face. But before he could kiss her, she put her finger on his lips and said, “I have a confession to make.”

A confession? His gut churned. “Um… Okay.”

Her confident gaze faltered. “I’m really nervous.” A whisper.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Me too.”

“Really?” she gusted. “What a relief.”

Yeah. He felt the same. “How about we take this one step at a time?”

“Okay.” She tipped her head to the side. “What do you suggest?”

“A kiss.”

“Agreed.”

He thought, perhaps, to tease her, and brushed his lips over hers with a feather light touch. But then—best laid plans and all that—she pushed out her tongue and licked him.

One flick of that pink tongue was all it took and his reservations, his concerns, his intent, melted. Melted in a sweltering blaze of scorching lust.

“Oh, God,” he said, or something like it, as he pulled her closer and deepened the kiss.

Although deepened was a pale word for it. It was more of a conflagration, a dizzying maelstrom of scent and sensation. She tasted glorious, and felt as wonderful in his arms, pressing against him, clutching him and—God help him—tugging his shirt from its anchorage so she could rake her fingers over his bare belly.

It enflamed him. He walked her backward until they hit an obstacle—the table, and thank God they’d cleared it—and he hefted her up on it so he didn’t have to stoop. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pressed against him.

“Oh, you’re hard,” she murmured when he released her lips to nibble his way to the delicious flesh of her neck.

“I’ve been hard all week,” he grumbled. “All I have to do is look at you, think about you, and I’m hard.”

“Mmm. We have to do something about that.”

“Let’s.”

He cupped her breasts and thrilled to the softness of her, that and the impudent nipple thrusting out. He scraped it with a finger and she moaned, writhed against him. But he had limited patience. And he required no foreplay. While he suspected she was ready too, he needed to be sure, so he eased his hand down, between them, beneath her tantalizing skirt, and touched her.

What he found almost made him lose all control.

Not only was she ready, not only was she warm and wet and creamy…she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

She’d spent the entire meal bare before him and he hadn’t even realized it.

The top of his head almost blew off. Both of them.

“Claire.” A growl.

She met his gaze with an impish grin. But it faded. Oh, yes, it faded, when he eased a finger into her sheath. He did it to punish her for making his soul howl, and to ready her for more. But he only ended up punishing himself. Because the feel of that tight channel, those muscles working on him, sucking at his sanity, made his eyes cross.