Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [36]
She tilted her head, lifting her arms to wrap them around his neck, her fingers twining in his hair. There was no frenzy, no insanity as he’d expect to feel after such a long, celibate period without a woman in his life. No. This was smooth and relaxed, not a prelude to anything more but a delight in and of itself.
He liked kissing. He’d forgotten how much.
He especially liked kissing her.
Lifting one hand, he cupped her cheek, realizing how cold her skin was. Icy cold. Such a contrast to her warm mouth and her hot, hot body.
Lottie shuffled backward, drawing him with her, until she was leaning against the corridor wall. When she bent her leg and lifted it, scraping her thigh along his hip, he groaned at the intimacy of it. She was tugging him hard against her with one leg while she tilted her pelvis into his. He could feel the heat between her legs and smell the hot, unmistakable musk of female arousal.
It would be easy—so very easy—to unfasten her jeans and take her right here, right now. Judging by her whimpers and the nearly frantic way she was rubbing against him—as if getting off on the feel of his erection against her crotch—that was exactly what she wanted. And the way their tongues tangled—mating, thrusting, giving and taking in a long, lethargic dance that imitated the way their bodies would dance when they came together—only emphasized it.
No. That couldn’t happen. She’d intended to give him a kiss of gratitude for God’s sake, because she thought he’d rescued her.
He was no damn hero. And though he was no damn saint, either, he somehow managed to end the kiss and lift his head.
She rose up on tiptoe, whimpering, not even opening her eyes. As if she wanted to start it all over again. But Simon resisted, taking a deep, controlling breath and easing back a few inches.
“Your cheeks are cold,” he said with a soft laugh, trying to tease the aura of sex and sensuality out of the air.
She stared at him, her big brown eyes dreamy and out of focus, her lids half-closed in lazy, wanton invitation. But he wasn’t accepting that invitation.
He was not.
Finally, as if she’d recognized his resolve, she nodded. “Yes, it was pretty cold. At least twenty degrees colder than that icebox I slept in last night.”
Chuckling, he said, “I offered to fire up the generator.”
“You didn’t seem very enthusiastic about it.”
Shrugging, he admitted, “It doesn’t work very well.” Then, knowing their brief talk had succeeded in cooling them both off, he asked, “So, are you okay?”
She nodded. “Just chilled. And a little freaked out. I guess my imagination started to get away from me. I was envisioning people under every one of those stupid sheets up there.”
He suddenly remembered what she’d been yelling…that she’d been locked in the attic.
“Lottie,” he said, taking her hands in his—cold hands, too—and tugging them away so he could step back. “Why did you think you were locked in?”
She gave him a duh look. “Because I was. At first I wondered if you were trying to scare me into leaving, playing a prank. Believe me, if you’d rescued me an hour ago, I would have come out swinging.”
Lucky for him. He much preferred her coming out kissing.
“But I figured you wouldn’t do that, especially when I heard you calling for me outside. I’m glad you came back toward the house and heard me shouting back.” She lifted her hands, studying the backs of them, which was when he realized they were red and scratched. “I guess I pounded too hard.”
Frowning, Simon grabbed her hands and turned them so he could take a better look. “They’re raw. You were banging on the door?”
She nodded. “Yelling my guts out, pounding, kicking.”
Her throaty voice told him she wasn’t exaggerating. She sounded a little hoarse.
“I didn’t hear a thing,” he said, wondering how he was going to tell her she had not been locked in. He had the feeling she wasn’t going to like hearing that bit of news.
“This house is too darn big,”