Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,13

could have kicked her own ass for what came out of her big mouth. She’d actually batted her lashes when she’d said it, too. What had come over her? She back-pedaled. “But it’s entirely up to you what you do with all that free time.” And if you want to jump me, the answer is yes.

Persia grabbed one of her fluffiest towels, but instead of handing it to him, she eased it over his head and around his shoulders. Drying him off should not have been so erotic, but everywhere that towel touched, her fingers dared to go. First through the short-cropped hair on that handsome head, then down the expanse of his rugged neck. Down his back. Around to his front. His chest boasted crisp hairs that danced their way to his belly to… there.

She patted everything dry as quickly as she could without teasing him. But damn, this man had the build of Hercules. Wide and powerful in all the right places. His thighs. His calves. His arms. Hard as steel. Not bulky, but just right.

“Your lips are going to chap if you keep doing that,” he murmured, looking intently down at her now that she’d dropped to her knees at his—knees. Just to dry his legs and feet. Nothing more. Though he was right. She was licking her lips at the squeaky-clean male standing before her. But one taste of this incredible temptation would only add to his frustration.

So, no. Just no. She wouldn’t do that to him. He needed time to recuperate, and for someone to take care of him for a change. To feed him, not just hump him like a bunny. In spring. In clover…

Persia jumped to her feet, her heart pounding with all the things she wanted to do with and to this quiet, handsome, gentle man. Like a boss instead of a naked seductress, she pointed to the stool near her sink and ordered, “Sit. I’ve got just what you need.”

“You certainly do,” he murmured as his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back to his mouth. Loving her all over again. One hand slipped up her spine and into her wet hair while he cupped her jaw with the other. With breathy heat and a promise he couldn’t quite deliver at the moment, Hotrod anointed her lips, chin, and neck.

There was no resisting this guy, so she let him play. Let his tongue tangle with hers again. They were good together. She liked the way their bodies seemed to recognize each other. The way they slipped together without effort or trying. The way they’d clicked. But for this one brief moment, she knew better than him. Sex was off the table.

“Sit down,” she ordered huskily, before she lost what little restraint she had left. “You can have all you want of me, but after breakfast. First…”

She reached past him for the Aloe Vera gel on the shelf behind him. Before he had a chance to tease or tempt her, Persia lathered a goodly amount over his broad shoulders and down his arms.

A sigh breathed out of him.

Shifting from the danger zone between his thighs, she smoothed more across his back and over the top of his very fine backside. Around his ribcage to his abdomen. Talk about muscles. Every inch of this man was a memory in discipline she’d never forget. Her modest-sized bathroom was suddenly stuffy and warm. Make that h-h-hot.

Standing back in front of him, he pulled her between his knees. Then his thighs. Not a good idea. She didn’t have to look down to know her breasts were now heavy, her nipples as taut as solitaire diamonds, and mashed against a handsome, manly chest. Besides, if she looked down any farther, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to tear her eyeballs off that bad boy once again pressed into her belly.

Hotrod sat there as still as a statue, his blue eyes dark with passion...

That. Was. Not. Helping.

“Tip your head back,” she breathed, her entire body thrumming with need. “Please. I can’t r-r-reach under your chin.” Because I’d rather take a firm hold of something else.

It was oddly arousing to command a beast as magnificent as the big guy now seated obediently on her bathroom stool. All Hotrod had to do was lean forward, put one elbow on his knee and a fist to his chin, and he’d be Auguste Rodin’s “Thinker.”

Yet he pulled her close again. “I wish I’d met you years ago,” he murmured, the black