Page 17 of All Mixed Up

An action requiring the man to slide his skin against mine.

To twine his heat and hardness around me…

Okay, it was only one damn finger. One little inch. One miniscule contact.

But it was all he needed. The necessary connection to spark our senses even hotter for each other. To blast open our awareness of each other. To inject the knowledge in us both that the fire wasn’t going to wane just because we let go of each other.

Not that the man was going to do so.

Not if I was correctly interpreting the tightening twist of his digit against mine.

Oh, God.

He yanked even tighter, causing me to lose my balance.

Oh, God.

As I stumbled forward, he stepped in too.

Oh, God.

He consumed my personal space, easily absorbing every shock and zap and spark between our bodies. Every new millimeter he gained was another bump of amplitude to his heart-stopping potency, his breath-robbing force.

Awareness started coming in spurts of dazzling awareness. The silent sweep of his dark head. Then his wordless warning, a stop from just an inch away, telling me to get away now if I wanted. But heaven help me, that was the last thing I wanted. Maybe even needed.

I craved what he gave me instead.

The pull of his fingers, long and powerful and steely, ensuring our bodies’ nearness was now a crush. The hypnosis of his stare, hot and weighted and sure, as he descended his head by another fraction.

And then another…

Before he took me.

Enflamed me.

Devoured me.

Then parted me. Pushing in between my moaning lips so he could taste and relish and ravish me. Making me taste him in return, drenching me in his dark spices and masculine need. Slicking the heart of his mouth against the soft recesses of mine so that finally, finally, our bodies acknowledged what our spirits already knew. The awareness combusted between us, blossoming into full physical form. Into searing, consuming hunger…

Still, the man made no sound.

Uttered no words.

Neither did I.

Even after we yanked back from each other, heaving in gulps of air like we hadn’t breathed in a year.

Even while he scooped a hand around mine and guided me into his car, locking the seatbelt around me himself—and taking brazen advantage of the chance to bite my neck as he did.

Even during the drive back to the apartment—five minutes that felt like five hours—and during the ornate elevator’s climb to the seventh floor.

Still not a word during our walk down the hallway to my door. Somewhere between the Metro station and here, I’d gotten the point of it. The silence was our foreplay. In every one of his nuanced glances, I was as good as teased and tongued. In every look I returned through my lashes, I mentally stripped and stroked him. And when our fingertips brushed, our bodies instantly communicated the contact to other places. Deeper places. Harder places. Wetter places.

Much wetter.

By the time I handed him my key and he unlocked the door, I was almost screaming from the wild, insane need of it all.

Wasn’t happening.