Harlequin - Jennifer Greene, Hot Touch [urban books to read txt] 📗

“You promise not to move?”

“I’ll promise anything. If you swear you won’t sing again.”

It was a weak attempt at humor. Very weak. So weak that suddenly neither of them was moving.

Somewhere a pup was snoring. Somewhere a faucet was dripping. But the only thing he was really aware of was her face, inches from his. She was looking at him with this…expression. Of caring. And compassion. And something more. Something so gut personal, so intimate, so about her and him, that he couldn’t seem to breathe for a whole long second.

And then she said, “It’s gone, Fox.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s there every damn time we’re in the same room together. Every time you look at me.

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Every time I look at you.”

“No. I mean…it’s out.”

“I wish I could believe that, but I swear to God, that feeling’s coming after us like a freight train. Damn it, Phoebe. I’m not totally sure I planned to have sex again for the rest of my life. I came home not expecting to feel anything for the rest of my life. And then you came along.”

“Fox.All I’m trying to tell you is that the long metal sliver is out!”

Oh. The sliver. But when he looked at her face again, that fierce, soft look of longing and desire and closeness was still there—real as moonlight. As real as the pulse drumming in her throat. As real as her parted lips.

Six

Phoebe saw him coming, saw him aiming for a kiss, and knew perfectly well he intended trouble—and not a little trouble, but a major-meltdown type of trouble. Yet she couldn’t smack him. Not after having seen all those scars, all those healing wounds, all those hurts, so close up. She couldn’t do anything to further hurt Fox. It was unthinkable.

Yet when her body bowed toward his—when her lips parted for his—it wasn’t exactly because she wanted to kiss him. It was just that she recognized his soul needed healing far, far more than his body.

And, of course, she had no power to heal his soul or anyone else’s. But she couldn’t be so mean as to reject Fox.

That was her excuse for kissing him as if she’d die without another taste.

It wasn’t because she was a wanton, red-hot mama. It wasn’t because she let her senses rule her sense.

It wasn’t because she was the kind of woman who’d kick out her morals when a guy turned her on.

Phoebe wasn’t worried about all those insinuations Alan had implied about her character. She wasn’t.

She didn’t have time to worry about nonsense like that just then. Her brain was scrambling too hard trying to figure out how to tactfully, carefully, extricate herself from Fox without hurting him. She was fiercely considering that problem. Or trying to—only, by then he was kissing her again. And again. And again.

She fought for a breath. “You’re not up for this,” she whispered worriedly.

“Oh, trust me. I am.”

“I don’t want to touch you in the wrong place. Risk hurting you—”

“Phoebe. You couldn’t conceivably hurt me in the wrong way. It’s the first time I’ve hurt this good in a lifetime and then some.” His hands sieved through her hair. Even in the dusky light, she could see his eyes, fiercer than fire. “Don’t stop me. You can stop me later. I swear, I won’t go further than you want, not now, not ever. But…don’t stop me from kissing you a little more right now, okay?”

If any other man tried that ridiculous line on her, Phoebe would have laughed…but Fox, damn him, wasn’t any other man. He sounded as if he really meant it—that he truly believed they’d stop, that he’d stop, that he wasn’t just beguiling her into being seduced. And because she believed he was telling her Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

the whole truth—as he knew it—her heart helplessly lunged again.

He’d locked the door on his feelings for so long. It meant something huge that he’d opened himself now, for her. Yeah, it was sex—she knew it wasn’t for more—-but that didn’t make his trusting her with his wary emotional state any less. The man was in so much pain. Shehad to respond to him. Anyone would have. Her heart wasn’t involved. Not really.

Not exactly.

Oh, hell. Maybe she was falling so deep, so hard in love that her heart was going to get ripped apart and shredded…but right now, holy kamoly, could he kiss.

Since she’d kissed him before, she should have realized how flammable he was. She knew how potent those narrow lips were. How tasty. But he got these terrible inventive ideas this time. His tongue dipped and swirled and teased. His mouth tucked and ducked and tilted and found a hundred new ways to claim hers.

She never took off his sweatshirt, yet somehow it handily dropped to the ground. She swore she never volunteered to touch him, yet somehow her hands were freely running over his chest, his back. She’d touched him before, but she’d touched him as a masseuse.

Now she learned him with a woman’s hands, inhaled him the way a woman breathes in her lover. Her fingertips chased over muscles and tendons, over the flat of his stomach, the ridges of ribs, up to the column of his neck—not to chase away knots this time, but to inspire some. Not to ease away sore spots, but to ignore other tactile sensations entirely.

The skin on his shoulder had the vague scent of soap and the naked scent of him beneath that. She caught the hint of musky sweat as he struggled with the heat rising between them, as shocking fast as the gush of a volcano…but that hint of sweat was an aphrodisiac for her. It wasn’t work or stress sweat, but simply man sweat, him sweat, the scent of a man on fire.

And still he kissed her. His lips trailed her neck, making necklaces with his damp tongue. His rough, long fingers pushed at her sweater, eased it up