Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [29]
But around Trace she felt so much that her head swam with the conflagration of sensations. She’d gone to sleep thinking about him and, she just realized, she’d awakened with him on her mind.
Utterly pathetic.
She had just given Liger his food when a tap sounded on the connecting door. Priss’s heart leaped into her throat.
With excitement.
Not dread, or annoyance, or even indifference.
Pure, sizzling stimulation. Suddenly she was wide-awake.
Tamping down her automatic smile, Priss leaned on the door. “Yeah?”
“Open up.”
Still fighting that twitching grin, Priss tried to sound disgruntled as she asked, “Why?”
Something hit the door—maybe his head—and Trace said, “I heard you up moving around, Priss. I have coffee ready, but if you don’t want any—”
Being a true caffeine junkie, she jerked open the door. “Oh, bless you, man.” She took the cup straight out of Trace’s hand, drank deeply and sighed as the warmth penetrated the thick fog of novel sentiment. “Ahhhh. Nirvana. Thank you.”
Only after the caffeine ingestion did she notice that Trace wore unsnapped jeans and nothing else. Her eyes flared wide and her jaw felt loose. Holy moly.
“That was my cup,” Trace told her, bemused.
But Priss could only stare at him. Despite the delicious coffee she’d just poured in it, her mouth went dry.
When she continued to stare at him, at his chest and abdomen, her gaze tracking a silky line of brown hair that disappeared into his jeans, Trace crossed his arms.
Her gaze jumped to his face and she found him watching her with equal fascination.
A little lost as to the reason for that look, Priss asked with some belligerence, “What?”
With a cryptic smile, Trace shook his head. “Never mind. Help yourself, and I’ll get another.”
Oh, crap, she’d snatched away his cup! “Sorry.”
He lifted a hand in dismissal and went to the coffee machine sitting atop the dresser. His jeans rode low on his hips. The sun had darkened his skin, creating a sharp contrast to his fair hair.
Another drink was in order, and another sigh of bliss. Hoping to regain her wits, Priss said, “God, nothing in the world tastes better than that first drink of coffee.”
Trace looked over his shoulder, his attention zeroing in on her mouth, then her chest and finally down to her bare legs. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
Sensually stroked by that hot glance and the low timbre of his suggestive words, Priss followed him in. So did Liger. Now fed, the big cat strode past her and leaped up to Trace’s bed, disturbing the covers that Trace had already smoothed back into place. Liger chose to stretch across the pillows near the headboard. He pawed the soft cotton a moment, showed his claws, yawned and relaxed.
Trace gestured toward the small round table and two chairs. “Take a seat, Priss.”
Last night, after relocating to the hotel, she and Trace had eaten dinner at that table. It had been…nice.
A revelation even.
They’d shared quiet conversation, talking about everything under the sun without either of them giving away anything too personal or important. Pure chitchat. A way to pass the time.
For Trace, it had seemed mundane, a casual occurrence that he’d indulged many times.
For Priss, it was a profound thing to sit across from a man and really, truly enjoy him—his appearance, his sense of humor and wit, his intelligence and his attention. Even while eating a loaded cheeseburger, he’d stayed alert to every sound in the hallway and parking lot, and every movement she made, no matter how big or small. Having his undivided interest, protected by his irrefutable competence, had been really nice.
“I don’t mind sitting.” But first…Priss finished off her coffee and looked at the full pot. “Is it all right if I get a refill?”
“Help yourself.”
When Priss moved toward the coffee machine, rather than give her room, Trace leaned back on the edge of the dresser and watched her. She could detect his early-morning scent of warm skin, musky male and palpable sex appeal. Delicious.
Would