Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [7]
A normal person would pull away and start stammering apologies, right?
I closed my eyes and remained where I was.
How could I not? He was warmth personified and I was freezing. And he smelled…oh, God, amazing. That hot scent filled my head until I felt as though I were drawing in his essence with every breath I inhaled.
“Mmm,” I groaned, opening my eyes again. Though the light was dim and shadowy, I could easily make out the powerful ropy muscles of his neck. I could even see the pulse in his throat, which was an inch from my mouth.
My fingers were clenched in the soft white fabric of his loosely buttoned shirt, which didn’t do much to cover his firm chest.
Put your hands in the air and step away from the hot dude.
But I couldn’t make myself do it. I couldn’t move backward. I couldn’t even look up. Because as soon as I did—as soon as I saw confusion or amusement on this stranger’s face—this surreal, intoxicating moment would end. Mystery solved, secrets revealed.
He’d be just another guy with a laugh and a leer. Or bad teeth and a hooked nose. So with one quick, appreciative glance at his strong, square jaw, outlined by a layer of dark stubble, I looked down instead.
The stranger’s button-up shirt was open almost to his middle, revealing a swirl of dark, wiry hair and ripples of flexing muscle. Just below his collarbone, I saw the puckered edge of a raw, fresh-looking scar that disappeared beneath his shirt. For some crazy reason, I wanted to lift my hand and scrape my fingers across it. To soothe away the redness. To shiver as I wondered how he’d gotten it.
Lottie, wake up!
No. Not yet. I didn’t want to.
My wet, jean-covered legs were almost entwined with his and even through the soaked fabric, and his own dark pants, I could feel the powerful warmth of his thighs. Our position was almost sexual, with one of his limbs caught between mine, so I couldn’t muster up any surprise when my body reacted in a typical way.
The shakiness in my thighs now had nothing to do with my stumble or my wet boots. A warm current of want drifted through me, making my nipples pucker hard against my thin sweater. And lower I felt a flow of moisture between my legs as my sex swelled against the seam of my jeans.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low and thick. He almost combined the words you and all, his soft drawl giving a tiny hint that he was from the South.
I thought about his question. Was I all right? No. Not at all. I was ravenous and hot, even while wet and freezing. I was aroused over a complete stranger whose face I hadn’t yet seen and was wrapped around him in the shadows while the rain still pounded outside and a strong October wind blew through the open front door.
“Still with me here?” the voice said, sounding a tiny bit amused.
That hint of amusement finally pierced through the hazy cloud of sensual awareness that had been filling my head. Blinking rapidly, I cleared my throat and slowly—carefully—pulled away. I regretted the loss of his warmth the moment an inch of cool evening air separated our bodies.
“I’m okay,” I managed to whisper.
Then I looked up and saw his face. And my heart stopped.
In the shadowy light spilling into the foyer from a nearby room, I could just make out the thin scar marring the perfection of his forehead. My breath catching in my lungs, I realized his hair was jet-black. Just like Josef Zangara’s. His eyes…also nearly black. Also like Zangara’s.
He looked angry. He looked forbidding. And he looked like a fricking serial killer.
I was definitely not okay.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, already backing toward the door.
Shaking my head—doubting my senses—I quickly chose the storm over the ghosts in this place. When my heels hit the threshold, they kept right on going. Onto the slick wooden planks of the porch. Farther. Farther.
He followed, those intense dark eyes narrowing as he slowly stepped toward me, like some kind of graceful-but-deadly cat stalking its prey.
Graceful.