Hot Blooded

the loveliest
sound she'd ever heard a person make. His arms slid down her back and tightened
as his tongue went deep.
    He tasted as good as he smelled. In moments, her head was spinning with the
erotic rush. As if he knew, he savored his victory, refusing to hurry a lick or
pull, enticing her to respond in kind. She sighed with pleasure as she accepted.
To her mind, nothing was better than a man who loved to kiss, and every
indication said Bastien did.
    She couldn't suppress a whimper when he stopped.
    "Touch me," he said, the merest breath against her trembling mouth. "Put your
hands on my skin."
    "Heather might—"
    "Heather is perfectly safe with Emile." His gaze burned into her from inches
away, mesmerizing, penetrating, trying to convey some message she could not
quite read. "Your touch is what I want most. It's what I crave."
    If she'd ever doubted he was strange, this would have capped it. What sort of
man talked this way? But his strangeness didn't matter. Directed by cravings of
their own, her ringers found the finely woven cotton of his business shirt,
smoothing it up his chest. His pecs were steely, his shoulders broad enough to
ride. He wore no tie, and at his throat one strong, blue vein pulsed out a wild
rhythm.
    "Do it," he said, then swallowed hard.
    Gripping his shirt at the back, she tugged its tails out from his trousers.
For a moment, she thought of ripping it another seam. With shaking hands, she
slid her arms beneath.
    Whatever she was expecting, it was not this. His back felt like moon-cooled
marble under her palms, impossibly smooth, invitingly firm and strong.
    He jerked as if her touch had burned him, then closed his eyes. "Yes-s," he
hissed, a sound of rapture. "I love your heat."
    "You're freezing!" she exclaimed, chafing her hands up his spine.
    Swearing softly, he lifted her off her feet.
    His next kiss silenced what was left of her yammering brain. It had been ages
since anyone had kissed her and, in truth, no one had ever done it with such
concentrated, pent-up need. Skill aside, his enthusiasm was flattering: probing,
sucking, tilting his head or hers to find new variations of their perfect fit.
    When he nipped her lower lip and tugged it, she felt devoured, just as Linda
at the Clip 'n' Curl had longed to be. She was glad her nails were short because
her fingers dug into his skin. Groaning, he set her on the cutting block, pulled
her legs apart and stepped between.
    Whoa
, thought Mariann, her eyes going wide as she registered the
length and breadth of what he was beginning to grind against her, slowly,
fiercely, with a gasp that sounded like relief. Her hands clutched his back in
amazement. Who'd have expected a man so meticulously put together would sport an
erection this rude? The surprise of it aroused her, the thrill as undeniable as
it was cheap. Not only was he harder than the eighteen-year-old boys she'd
nearly forgotten, Bastien Luce was seriously hung.
    Like some dewy-eyed ingenue, she found herself wondering if he would fit.
    To hell with that, she decided. She'd make him fit… and enjoy every rock-hard
inch.
    With a curse, he moved his mouth to her neck. "I won't hurt you," he said,
panting like a runner against her pulse. "Please do not think it."
    "No," she assured him just as heavily. "Never crossed my mind."
    This was true, though he was uncannily quick with his hands. She wasn't sure
when he had removed it, but her chef's jacket, the one they all called whites,
was gone. Now he was pushing her T-shirt up her belly, stroking the skin he
uncovered bit by bit. A tingle spread from beneath his fingers, as if he were
infused with electricity. She half expected to see sparks.
    The effect he had on her was disconcerting. She was no slave to her needs, no
silly romantic to go spineless at holding hands. But she squirmed at the
sensations, her body growing hotter with every touch. She fought a groan as his
palms smoothed around her ribs to pop the clasp of her plain beige bra.
    Since Mariann was no centerfold, normally this was the point where she got
self-conscious. Bastien didn't give her a chance.
    "Look at you," he breathed, both thumbs sweeping arcs across her now bare
breasts. Caught at their edges, her areolae swelled and itched. She held her
breath as he bent his head.
    Even though she was expecting it, her back arched uncontrollably as his mouth
fastened on one peak. She barely noticed the caresses of his second