hope. He could very well have been the boy next door she'd grown up with, building forts and selling lemonade and practicing the art of French kissing.
He seemed less out of her league, more approachable.
And so she approached, her finger moving to toy with the next button in the long row down. "So you're off into the field? To consult on a project? Would you like a sandwich for the road?"
"Actually, I'm just back," he said, his chest rising and falling more rapidly now. "I thought I'd stop in and see what you had to offer."
"Well," she began, dampening her pressed lips with the tip of her tongue. "The turkey is always fresh, and I just set out a new Cajun baked ham and a roast beef seasoned with sea salt."
"Hmm." He widened his stance, adjusted his weight, balanced on both feet. "I was thinking of something sweeter."
"I don't believe that for a minute, Shaughnessey . You never order dessert," she replied, certain that she would soon be unable to breathe, having lifted her gaze to meet his.
The twelve-by-twelve cinder block room shrank to the size of a matchbox. It didn't matter that they were surrounded by industrial steel shelving and metal lockers and enough ketchup to paint the town red. All she knew was that bad boy look in Tripp Shaughnessey's eyes.
Forget the fairy tales. He was Tarzan, she was Jane, and the heat of the jungle seethed.
"Oh, I don't know." His voice was low, a raspy whisper, rough and achingly raw. "I could go for a mouthful of cake right about now."
When he set his hands at her hip bones, she let him pull her forward, inching closer with tiny, sliding, baby steps until their bodies were flush. Her fingers returned to the first snap she'd toyed with, the first in the long row down . . . and pop.
"I have key lime cheesecake." Pop. Her heart blipped in her chest like a target on a radar screen. "Italian cream cake." Pop. She curled her toes in her shoes. "Fudge pecan pie." Pop. Her fingers shook. "Butter brownies and chocolate chip cookies." Pop. Her lungs deflated.
She pulled the tails of his shirt from his waistband and pressed eight fingertips to the first ridge of muscle delineating his abs. "Do any of those sound good?"
"I'm not so big on sugar."
She resisted letting her fingers drift lower to see if he was big on her. Instead, she tested the resilience of skin and muscle from his abs upward, stopping only when she reached his collarbone. Then, her index fingers found and measured that sexy little indentation she'd dreamed of kissing.
Frowning, she tapped him there. "Lean down a minute. You've got something right here . . ."
He did. And she did. And he tasted like heaven.
Tripp froze, an ice cube under assault from a blowtorch. Oh, Glory. Hot barely began to describe her. And it sure as hell didn't make a dent in explaining the temperature of her mouth.
He flexed his fingers at her hips where he held her, loving the give of her flesh, the nicely rounded curves that filled his hands with no poking from protruding bones.
He'd come in here to surprise her, to tease her, to steal a kiss or two or three. Yet he was the one now scrambling to recover. The one wondering if recovering was what he wanted to do.
He cleared his throat and swallowed. As expected, Glory lifted her head, and he asked, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
Her eyes grew sleepy, dreamy, and she nodded. "I did, yes, thanks ."
She dropped her gaze to his chest, slid her palms from his pecs to his shoulders. He slid his hands from her hips around to cup her fine rump and handfuls of thick khaki skirt.
A smile stole along the edges of her mouth. He took it as encouragement and tugged her forward into the cradle of his lower body. "Hope you don't mind. Just making sure you're comfortable."
She wiggled a bit. "What about you?"
Oh, he was hard and beginning to ache and thinking it had been a long time since he'd found relief with a woman who tickled his fancy and not just his— "I'm good. Comfy. Still
He seemed less out of her league, more approachable.
And so she approached, her finger moving to toy with the next button in the long row down. "So you're off into the field? To consult on a project? Would you like a sandwich for the road?"
"Actually, I'm just back," he said, his chest rising and falling more rapidly now. "I thought I'd stop in and see what you had to offer."
"Well," she began, dampening her pressed lips with the tip of her tongue. "The turkey is always fresh, and I just set out a new Cajun baked ham and a roast beef seasoned with sea salt."
"Hmm." He widened his stance, adjusted his weight, balanced on both feet. "I was thinking of something sweeter."
"I don't believe that for a minute, Shaughnessey . You never order dessert," she replied, certain that she would soon be unable to breathe, having lifted her gaze to meet his.
The twelve-by-twelve cinder block room shrank to the size of a matchbox. It didn't matter that they were surrounded by industrial steel shelving and metal lockers and enough ketchup to paint the town red. All she knew was that bad boy look in Tripp Shaughnessey's eyes.
Forget the fairy tales. He was Tarzan, she was Jane, and the heat of the jungle seethed.
"Oh, I don't know." His voice was low, a raspy whisper, rough and achingly raw. "I could go for a mouthful of cake right about now."
When he set his hands at her hip bones, she let him pull her forward, inching closer with tiny, sliding, baby steps until their bodies were flush. Her fingers returned to the first snap she'd toyed with, the first in the long row down . . . and pop.
"I have key lime cheesecake." Pop. Her heart blipped in her chest like a target on a radar screen. "Italian cream cake." Pop. She curled her toes in her shoes. "Fudge pecan pie." Pop. Her fingers shook. "Butter brownies and chocolate chip cookies." Pop. Her lungs deflated.
She pulled the tails of his shirt from his waistband and pressed eight fingertips to the first ridge of muscle delineating his abs. "Do any of those sound good?"
"I'm not so big on sugar."
She resisted letting her fingers drift lower to see if he was big on her. Instead, she tested the resilience of skin and muscle from his abs upward, stopping only when she reached his collarbone. Then, her index fingers found and measured that sexy little indentation she'd dreamed of kissing.
Frowning, she tapped him there. "Lean down a minute. You've got something right here . . ."
He did. And she did. And he tasted like heaven.
Tripp froze, an ice cube under assault from a blowtorch. Oh, Glory. Hot barely began to describe her. And it sure as hell didn't make a dent in explaining the temperature of her mouth.
He flexed his fingers at her hips where he held her, loving the give of her flesh, the nicely rounded curves that filled his hands with no poking from protruding bones.
He'd come in here to surprise her, to tease her, to steal a kiss or two or three. Yet he was the one now scrambling to recover. The one wondering if recovering was what he wanted to do.
He cleared his throat and swallowed. As expected, Glory lifted her head, and he asked, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
Her eyes grew sleepy, dreamy, and she nodded. "I did, yes, thanks ."
She dropped her gaze to his chest, slid her palms from his pecs to his shoulders. He slid his hands from her hips around to cup her fine rump and handfuls of thick khaki skirt.
A smile stole along the edges of her mouth. He took it as encouragement and tugged her forward into the cradle of his lower body. "Hope you don't mind. Just making sure you're comfortable."
She wiggled a bit. "What about you?"
Oh, he was hard and beginning to ache and thinking it had been a long time since he'd found relief with a woman who tickled his fancy and not just his— "I'm good. Comfy. Still
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