I set the pie down on his shiny kitchen counter as he comes up
behind me and takes my hips in one hand.
The butterflies awaken in my stomach.
He uses his hand on my hips to turn me around, and my breath
catches on a moan as his lips come down on mine. Our mouths fuse
effortlessly, and will I ever get used to the electric jolt of his kisses? I feel
the natural high he gives me rise in my body. My pulse skipping. My
mind reeling. My world narrowing to the mouth currently making slow,
hot love to mine.
When his phone buzzes, interrupting us, I’m not sure what I see in
his eyes but the butterflies keep moving. His gaze is as deep as a night
forest.
He pecks my lips before he takes the call and steps aside. “Santori,”
he says, his voice low but clear. “Yeah, I was busy. Update? Hmm . . .”
He starts pacing toward the living room, frowning as he runs his hand
through his hair.
I wonder who this Santori is as I remove the aluminum foil from the
pie, search for a spoon, then lean over the kitchen counter, up on my
toes as I take a little spoonful.
Mmmm. God. Mint and chocolate are so good together.
I’m licking the spoon when I realize Saint is staring at me. Grinning,
I dip my spoon and savor it so that he realizes he’s missing out on
really
good homemade pie.
I keep watching him as he watches me back, the intensity in his stare
starting to knot up my body in places only he manages to reach. I set
down the spoon and . . . why is my hand trembling? Self-conscious of
his very male, very powerful stare, I lick the corners of my lips, and his
voice drops a decibel.
“Yeah, I can’t . . . do this now. Give me the night to think over our
next move.”
He powers off his phone and tosses it aside.
My knees turn to Jell-O as he comes over. He rubs a silver thumb
ring over my lips, his eyes gleaming with lights. “I thought I could get
some business done, but I’d rather do you.”
Holy crap
. He looks so decisive. So determined.
One sentence from this man and I’m as hot and ready as if we’ve
spent hours on foreplay.
“Do you . . .” I lick my lips and stare at his mouth, trying to level
my breathing. “Do you want pie?”
He tilts my head back so we make eye contact. And he shakes his
head . . . very, very slowly.
Malcolm is big on eye contact.
He’s a predator, and I’m his most willing prey.
He cradles the back of my skull while his free hand curls around my
neck, and still holding my gaze until it’s impossible for him to both
hold it and kiss me at the same time, he lowers his head. “I want . . .
these lips of yours. They’re all I want . . .”
First he trails his tongue, hot and wet, across my lips. I moan. His
smell enthralls me and the hint of his taste, along with the chocolate and
peppermint, lingers on my lips. If that isn’t the most delicious form of
torture, I don’t know what is.
