She wasn’t a woman who lied to herself. There was no way to deny that the connection between them went beyond the physical. This close, his eyes were a pale gray—the color of thick, impenetrable fog. And she was getting lost in them.
But she didn’t step back, didn’t move at all. Because once again, she simply couldn’t. Something about him was pulling her out of herself, and she was powerless to resist.
In the quiet of the room, she could hear each breath he took in and exhaled. The sound—just the sound—had desire erupting and racing through her in a torrent of heat. Desire and passion—those feelings she could understand. She welcomed them.
She couldn’t deny that she wanted him. Desperately. Neither of them moved, but Fiona saw his eyes darken, and she knew that his feelings were marching right along with hers. For the first time, she became aware that his thigh was touching hers, and the room, though it was tiny, seemed suddenly smaller, the air thinner. Her awareness of everything intensified. Her pulse hammering at the base of her throat, his scent, unrepentantly male, filling her each time she breathed.
And his hands. Each one of the fingers linked with hers was like a brand on her skin. He might as well have been touching her everywhere. At the thought, greed, raw and unmanageable, burst to life inside of her. She wanted him to touch her.
She swallowed. “Then there’s you. How can I think straight about the case when I want you this much?”
“The problem is mutual. It’s high time we solved it.”
She wasn’t sure who moved first, just that their mouths finally touched and molded. Reason vanished, and Fiona felt herself lost in exploring the shape of his lips, the texture of his tongue moving over hers, and his taste—dark and addictive. It would always be this way with him. Only with him.
When he drew away, she dug the fingers of her free hand into his shoulder and she would have cried out if he hadn’t covered her mouth with his fingers.
“Mrs. Ridgeway can’t be far.”
Mrs. Ridgeway. Even as the reality of where they were came flooding back, Fiona knew she didn’t care. What in the world had happened to the practical, sensible woman she used to be? She gripped his hand more tightly. “I want you now.”
“Not here.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the impulsive one.”
“Working on it.” He took both of her hands and drew her to her feet.
Fiona expected him to move to the door, but instead he guided her around the coffee table to the fireplace. Then he leaned his cane against the marble and gripped her by the hips. Fiona experienced an instant of disorientation when he lifted her onto the hearth. Then they were eye to eye.
“Yes, this might work,” D.C. said. “Game to give it a shot?”
Fiona blinked even as her pulse rocketed and her knees went weak. “I thought you said ‘not here.’”
He jerked his head. “I meant not over there on that sofa. We’d make kindling out of it.” Turning slightly, he leaned toward the door and flipped the lock. In the silence of the room, the click sounded erotic.
For a moment, their eyes met and Fiona saw exactly what he was feeling—desire, hot, electric and irresistible. She’d known this was coming from the first moment she’d seen him, but she hadn’t known how much she would want it or how little choice she would have to prevent it.
“Now.” She wasn’t sure who said the word, and she wasn’t sure who moved first. All she knew was that his mouth was covering hers. The instantaneous explosion was quick and devastating. There was an aggressiveness to the kiss she hadn’t expected—as if he couldn’t quite control what was happening, either. Sensations hammered at her as his mouth enticed, seduced, demanded. Her heart pounded in some primitive beat, and an outrageous need streamed through her blood.
When he finally drew back, she gulped in air, feeling singed and shaken. And glorious. Their fingers tangled as they rushed to release clothing.
“Hurry.”
“Working on it.” As he fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, she tugged the leather jacket down his arms. Slipping her hands beneath his sweater, she ran her hands over the hard ridge of muscle up his back. His strength taunted her, fascinated her.
His hands were no less busy. First her jacket, then her belt hit the floor. A fresh wave of excitement prickled along her skin as her slacks and her panties slid down her legs. Her breath caught when he gripped her waist and lifted her out of them. For a heady instant before he set her down again, she felt powerless, conquered.
Then she was back on her feet and those hands slipped beneath her opened blouse and moved slowly, meticulously from her hips to her breasts. His hands and his gaze lingered there for a moment as if trapped. She couldn’t stop herself from trembling.