Out here in Montana, in the dry season, we worry about wildfires constantly.
All it takes is a stray spark.
A little dry grass.
The right wind.
In seconds, you can go from a single orange ember to a roaring blaze that lights up sprawling acres like nothing, consuming them completely.
That’s how I feel when Holt attacks my mouth.
Every square inch of me lit to burning intensity in a single instant.
From nothing to this twisting inferno of heat that rips me apart as his tongue slips deep and hot, as he teases my mouth with suggestions of what he can do with other parts.
My hands clench into helpless fists.
I’m a panting wreck in no time, my lips slack and greedy and begging against his.
I can promise you this: there’s no dry season right now.
Not for me.
I’m wetter than the Pacific.
I’m ready to throw caution to the wind and let him burn me down by the time he’s done ravaging my mouth.
I don’t even care that it hurts when his tongue teases my swollen lower lip. The pain and the coppery taste of blood between us only makes me hotter, wilder, gasping and clutching at his hair, pulling him into me.
I’m hungry. This frantic urge rips through me that I know won’t be sated until he fills me with those piston hips.
It’s wicked.
It’s wonderful.
And just as addictive as his kiss.
Then that bastard stops. Slowly, but I feel it coming.
I have just enough dignity not to cling to him when he pulls away with a smile that reminds me of the first time I saw him. I thought of Lucifer, fallen right out of Heaven and into sin and then onto his ass in the mud.
“This time I surprised you,” he growls. “Now we’re even.”
He stands, and I can’t miss what’s at eye level, thick and hard and ridiculously huge against his jeans. His bulge tells me I’m not the only one burning to death right now.
“Back soon,” he promises, and even though he said he was going to sleep on the couch…
There’s so much suggestion in those two words, it makes me shiver.
I’m left staring after him, frozen, as he turns and walks away.
My face hits my hands again the instant the door slams shut.
I let out a despairing little moan.
I’m not gonna fall for this demon that’s possessed me with his sexy voodoo.
I’m not.
Only trouble is, now that I’ve tasted him—the real him, not just his slick act and polished smiles, I’m worried.
If I’ve already fallen, I’ll never get up again.
14
From the Horse’s Mouth (Holt)
My custom heated king-sized bed in my penthouse apartment in NYC was luxurious.
The cozy, plush beds at the Charming Inn are nice—soft, if not particularly high-end.
Tonight, I’ve never been more comfortable, sprawled out on Libby’s lumpy, misshapen old couch with a quilt draped over my hips, listening to the soft sounds of her sleeping upstairs.
I’m staying up all night.
I’ve even got a book to keep me awake—an old read I used to love as a kid called A Canticle for Leibowitz. I wasn’t surprised to find it tucked away in all the fantasy and sci-fi novels left behind on Dr. Potter’s shelves.
I barely make it past the second chapter before I’m out like a light.
So much for all night.
It’s been a long week, and I’m no good to anyone half dead.
If anything happens, I’ll hear it, though—and spring up like a watchdog, ready to lunge.
Thankfully, it’s a quiet night.
This is the best rest I’ve gotten since I moved to Heart’s Edge.
Amazing because I can’t even see her.
I just feel Libby, up in her room, picturing her cozy little sleeping area with a tight body tucked in and a hint of gold hair splashed across her pillow.
It’s even better in the morning with slender arms draped around my neck. Soft curves press against my chest, her tits plush against me, a round hip fitting into my waist.
A slow, shy kiss flutters over my lips.
Talk about one fuck of a wake-up call.
All it takes to get me up in more ways than one, too.
I open my eyes to Libby’s mouth teasing mine with full lush lips and a touch that makes every bit of me throb.
The second she realizes I’m awake, she stops.
Then pushes herself up with a hand braced against my chest. Hot damn if I’m not aware of her naked skin on mine, her palm pressed between my pecs, her fingers flat against my chest.
There’s a curious smile on her lips.
She watches me with those blue witchfire eyes stirring.
“So that’s what it takes to get you up,” she drawls, quiet laughter in every word, before she leans away to pick up a steaming coffee mug. “Thought the smell of this would do it, but you just kept snoring away.”
“I don’t snore,” I mumble drowsily, yawning around a huge smile.
Shit, yeah.
I could get used to waking up like this.