Private Pleasures, Tome 2 : Light Her Fire

Josh glanced back at her just then, and the hunger in his eyes sent a flare of excitement straight through her. He looked ready to devour her, and certain highly personal and mostly neglected parts tingled in anticipation of being devoured. If this guy switched teams after being with her, she’d have no choice but to join a convent—no matter that she wasn’t Catholic.

He held the red front door open, and their bodies brushed as she walked through. Her pulse spiked at his hard muscles and coiled energy momentarily pressed against her. Before she could tell her hyperactive hormones to settle, he gestured for her to precede him down the hall and up a staircase to the living quarters on the second level. She climbed the steep wooden stairs, trying to put some sway into her hips, and wondered if he noticed the effort. A door separated the stairway from the rest of the floor. She stopped there, because she wasn’t sure about the wisdom of walking through the door unannounced, and he bumped into her. The answer to her first question prodded her right where she’d imagined him looking. Yep, he’d noticed.

“Sorry,” he murmured and wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her. She barely heard him. All her focus zoomed to the contact around back. Long, hard, unapologetic contact, from a man who was practically a stranger, and wanted her with a hunger she’d never experienced before…in her life. She couldn’t help herself. She moaned, arched her spine, and pushed back against him. Good-bye, good girl.

He cursed under his breath, and then lowered his hand from her waist to between her thighs. At the same time, he rocked his hips. The duel sensations of his fingers stroking her from the front while the thick, insistent ridge of his erection nudged her from behind nearly did her in. A needy sound slipped from her throat.

“Oh, sweet mercy, don’t—”

“Don’t what? Torture you until you think you’re going to die where you stand? How do you think I feel every single time I look at you? When you come into Jiffy Java, fiddle with the top button of your blouse while you decide between an iced coffee or a sweet tea, all I want to do is tear your shirt open, shove your bra out of my way, and feast on your breasts. How do you think I feel when you lean on the bar at Rawley’s, talking to your friends while I drive myself insane wondering what you’ve got on under your good-girl dress? Tortured doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

Those diabolical fingers made a circling motion, and her knees threatened to buckle. “How shameless of me. I’m terribly”—oh, there he went again with the fingers—“sorry.” She wasn’t. Not in the least.