Burning Up

Anticipation fluttered in her stomach. She covered it with a light response. “I’m trying to decide what kissing a man in exchange for money makes me.”
    “I’m only a denier away from forcing myself on a woman. What does that make me?”
    “Cheap,” she said, and the warm flush building inside her heightened as he laughed.
    His laughter stopped abruptly when she pursed her lips and raised her face to his. He drew back.
    “Not a peck. A real kiss, so that you’ll have a good taste of me.”
    Everything inside her tightened. A good taste. She knew what he meant. Not just touching lips, but a lick inside his mouth—and he’d taste hers.
    Nervously, she wet her lips. Her gaze fell, and a deep hollow ache suddenly opened inside her. His thick erection jutted against his breeches. She wanted to feel him inside her. She wanted him . But she didn’t dare risk a child, not when the only money she had was being earned with a kiss. Biting her lip, she averted her eyes. No need to look down. His mouth was temptation enough.
    “I want inside you, Ivy. I can’t deny that. But you don’t have to worry that I’ll take it beyond a kiss.” Mad Machen came forward again, gripping the bed rail. “I’ll keep my hands right here. You can touch me wherever you like, but I won’t let go of this. Alright?”
    “Alright,” she whispered.
    She scooted closer, until her knees hit the rail. His broad chest rose and fell as quickly as hers, each breath shallow and ragged—then stopping altogether as she pressed her mouth to his.
    Oh. Warm and firm, his lips fit perfectly against hers. She waited, remembering how he’d shoved his tongue into her mouth two years ago, how her neck had hurt when he’d forced her head back, but he didn’t move. The only sound between them was the creaking of the bed rail as his hands tightened on the wood.
    And her hands . . . He’d given her permission to touch him, the chest and arms that were an anatomist’s dream. Every night as he’d undressed, she’d admired him from across the cabin. Her eyes feasting, her hands empty. No longer.
    Spreading her fingers, she slid their tips up the back of his hands, from knuckles to wrist. He breathed in sharply against her lips. The muscles in his forearms strained. Beneath his warm skin, nanoagents raced through his veins so quickly—as if his heart pounded. Hers did, too. His biceps bunched beneath her palms, and shook with effort, as if he carried a great weight rather than holding himself still. She parted her lips, and he froze, rigid as metal. But not beneath his skin. His blood raged like fire, nerves snapping with sensation, nanoagents enhancing it all and pulsing their messages to her fingers.
    She tasted him—and suddenly she couldn’t concentrate on her hands, only the heat of his mouth. Hunger wound inside her, tight as a spring. Again, she licked between his lips, searching. She couldn’t define his flavor, not something she’d had before but just was him , slick and hot, and she wanted more.
    Wrapping her arms around his neck, Ivy pulled herself higher, closer. Her nipples felt like small, tight rivets, and rubbing their tips against his hard chest started a throbbing ache between her legs.
    Then Mad Machen kissed her back, his tongue sliding against hers, and the need burst through her. Her hands buried in his hair, nails digging into his scalp, the electrical storm of his mind like an ecstatic vibration against her fingers. She moaned low in her throat. His arms came around her waist, hauling her closer against him. Ivy kissed him deeper, loving the feel of him, the ache, the taste. All of it. This was worth more than a denier. She couldn’t imagine any amount of coin that could match this.
    He abruptly stilled. Chest heaving, he pulled away and looked down at his hands, his expression dark.
    He’d forgotten, she realized. He’d forgotten that he’d promised not to let go of the rail.
    So had she.
    “You’ll remember tomorrow,” she said, her breath coming in pants.
    His gaze lifted to hers. His slow grin made her want to leap over the rail into his arms again. She held steady.
    “Tomorrow,” he echoed.
    “Yes.” She moved back to make room for him. “The same trade.”
    And maybe tomorrow she’d get farther than his biceps.
    “The same trade.” This time, his echo sounded strangled. He stared at her for a long minute. “God help me.”
    Ivy took that as a “yes.”

SIX
    S ix days later, Ivy lay panting in