That Girl's the One I Love Read Free Page A

tucked them away inside, treasured morsels of warmth, like soft chocolate kisses to savor in the weeks to come.
    She made half a pot of hazelnut coffee from the free trade shop, taking in the wonderful smell as it brewed, reliving the highlights of the night before. She’d done it. She’d really done it. She’d been in the right place, at the right time, to meet Arran. He had depths she’d never suspected.
    And he’d loved her in so many good ways.
    When they’d arrived back at her place, their interaction could only be described by one word: heat.
    They undressed each other, lips tasting each other’s skin as each new piece of clothing came off, holding each other, sweat slick and salty on the tongue. Each kiss reached deep into the other’s soul, tying a connection there, a marker so they could find their way back. They didn’t even make it to the bedroom the first time, but made love in a burst of passion on the throw rug in the living room.
    As they lay there, recovering from the shattering collision of their libidos, Leyla listened to the stillness, no sound but their ragged breathing. No wonder it was hot. She hadn’t left the air conditioning on. “Come on,” she whispered.
    She flipped the switch to the ceiling fan overhead, then slipped into the bedroom to turn on the small window unit, so it would be cool when they returned. He stumbled after her as she dragged him into the shower. “Cold or hot?” she asked.
    “You’re pretty hot,” he said with a lazy smile. “You’re pretty pretty, too.”
    She felt the blush hit her all over and knew he could see it, too. “I think cold.” She turned the knobs and they both shrieked as the cold water hit them full force. His hand reached over hers and he moderated the water temperature to lukewarm, just warm enough not to sting, but cool enough to bring their burning skin temperature down.
    “You are a wicked, wicked girl,” he teased.
    “And that’s why you’re here with me.” She slipped her arms around him, the water running down her back. The manly scent of him, the sense of his skin against hers, made her feel drunk, even though she hadn’t had one sip of alcohol.
    He reached for her shower gel, something that smelled of raspberry and coconut, and began to slather it over her. When she would have protested, he laid his lips over hers, effectively cutting off any objection, and kept his hands moving, washing every part of her, coming to know her entire body as if it could be read in Braille. He took down the shower head to rinse her, then washed her hair, too. She’d never felt so pampered, so loved.
    When she was thoroughly clean, she kissed him to express her thanks. “But you’re still dirty,” she said, her voice soft as a summer cloud.
    “I suppose I could go home and wash up.” His eyes danced with mischief.
    “I suppose not.” She eyed the shower gel. “But I don’t have any macho soap here. You’ll have to smell like a tropical drink, too.”
    He chuckled. “If that’s the worst thing that happens to me today, I think I’ll be fine.”
    She switched places with him, admiring his broad shoulders as he stretched back to wet his hair under the falling water. He couldn’t claim a six-pack, though he wasn’t overweight by any means. Again, he was comfortable; no need to build his body to impress others. He had no lack of muscles, as her fingers discovered as she rubbed him with soapy bubbles. When she reached up to wash his hair, he pulled her body hard against his, his insistent lips not the only evidence of his growing desire. She surrendered to his fevered excitement, which only the water cooled again, once they were both spent.
    When they finished, they took turns drying each other with thick spring-green towels, one of the only luxuries she’d allowed herself in her limited effort at housekeeping. He insisted on combing out her hair before they retired to the bedroom, nice and cool now, since it was hardly bigger than a