In Flames

Excerpt:
It was a real bachelor’s pad, though, and that made her tense the moment she’d walked in. Now, sitting here dressed only in Marco’s shirt, on Marco’s couch, all she could think was, So many women…

Sophie did her best to dismiss the thought. She just hoped Marco would, too. She’d much rather risk an encounter with a ghost than have Marco begin to list her with his other conquests.

“Sophie—” He handed her a glass of chardonnay, which took her a little by surprise.

“I don't usually drink wine before bed.” It was rude and ungracious, but he should know that. About the wine. The gesture meant he was lumping her with his significant list of Others.

Sophie strode purposefully to her purse. It was a satchel type, because lately, she’d been carrying her sketchbook again. Sketching seemed to be the only thing that could distract her enough to calm her. Even when her muscles were rigid with fear, if she could just get that piece of charcoal to move, it would do more to relax her than any glass of wine would.

“So, I’m not,” she told Marco, tilting her head to study the hard line of his jaw. It was difficult to concentrate on his jaw with so much else of Marco showing.

Except that jaw was set even firmer now. Marco was irritated. “Not what?”

“Going to bed.” She lifted her chin, her eyes meeting his.

It didn’t have the effect she’d expected. She thought he’d get mad. Instead, he grew erect. She might have been sketching his face now, but hell, a woman would have had to be blind not to see what was happening further south.

~

Marco watched her draw, his irritation quickly giving way to hunger—for Sophie. The woman didn’t realize what a picture she made, with her long red curls coiled around those lusciously rounded feminine parts. “Sophie,” he coaxed.

Her eyes widened, but he recognized the gesture. It wasn’t lust, but it was close. Artistic fervor, he’d learned over the past year, with its impassioned sensuality, could sometimes border on eroticism.

She was sketching avidly, her brow furrowed with concentration. She seemed completely unaware how enticing her bottom could be, peeking out as it was from beneath his stolen shirt.

“Chilly?” he asked, biting his lip. Dammit, if her nipples weren’t poking at the fabric.

“I’m just fine,” she drawled, her eyes narrowing.

“I can see that,” he retorted.

She continued sketching, this time, working down his body muscle by muscle. It was Marco Torture Time. Marco thought, in spy training, he’d been prepared to resist anything, but this?

“I’m doing the deltoids now.”

Oh, God. Marco sucked in a breath and tried to hold still. The sooner she got this out of her system, the sooner he could get into her.

Sophie slipped in close to him, to read the offending muscle with her fingertips, before carefully shading in the contours on the paper.

Marco figured he had enough black on him by this point to act as camouflage. Smudges all over—and every time his erection would start to diminish, giving him back a trace of his dignity, that damned woman would be back, tracing first with her fingers, and then, with her lips, across his chest, his rib cage, his stomach, his thigh.

“I have to get this right…”

Marco bit his lips, then sucked in a choked breath as her tongue lapped the slight depression where an old bullet wound creased from his belly button to his groin. His penis jumped. “You’re getting it…just…fine,” he gasped. He couldn’t take this much longer. “Cripes, Sophie—”

He opened his eyes, but she’d seen his pained look and was prettily sketching once again. “Just one minute—“

“Not one second,” he growled, scooping her up and sending the sketchbook frisbeeing across the room. He tossed her onto the bed and leapt on top of her. "Ah'm ready!" he shouted, mocking her drawl.

There was no mockery in his dark eyes as he slowly entered her, attempting to taunt her the way she'd taunted him. She was ready, though, and he'd no sooner entered than her muscles clamped down on him.

More than ready…