And suddenly, her mind filled with the vivid image of them naked together, her bare skin pressed against his, his hands tormenting her until she was hot and mindless.
She jerked upright, pulling her hands away as though they’d been burned. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.
Mace turned his head to look at her inquiringly.
Becka licked her lips. “Okay, that’s it, you’re done,” she said, backing away. Then she glanced at the clock and gave a heartfelt curse. “How did it get to be midnight?” She wiped her hands and tossed the towel into the hamper.
Mace pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the table. “I thought it seemed like it went on for a while.” He stood and stretched. “Guess you lost track of time.”
“Get dressed so we can get out of here. I have to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to move.” Becka crossed to her desk, fishing her purse from the bottom drawer. She didn’t want to look at him standing there with his shirt off. She definitely didn’t want to remember what it had felt like to touch that body. Quickly, she snatched her keys, then rose and turned.
And found herself face to face with him.
He topped her by about eight inches, which left her looking at his clavicle. She dragged her eyes up from the hard planes of his chest, only to find herself drowning in his eyes.
“I dreamed about you last night,” he said softly, his drawl whispering over her skin and along her bones. “I’m trying to figure out why that is.” He touched his hand to the side of her face, running his fingertips down her cheek and tracing them into the open collar of her polo shirt. She shivered. Her purse dropped from nerveless fingers with a soft thud.
“I’m thinking it’s because of your mouth,” he said, staring at her. “I’m thinking it was because I was wondering what it might be like if I did this—” he dipped his head to take a light nip at her lower lip, sliding a hand around her waist to draw her nearer. “Or if I did this—” he brushed her lips with the tip of his tongue, featherlight, tempting them to part as her breath shuddered out. “Or maybe I should just do this,” he whispered, and he closed his mouth over hers in a hard, urgent kiss that sent her spinning into passion, unable to think, only to feel.
Hot and demanding, his mouth made no pretense of gentleness. The rough scrape of his beard was a sharp counterpoint to the silk of his tongue, to the teeth that scraped at her lips. His body was hard against her, the insistent pressure of his desire sending little shudders through her.
The heat overwhelmed her. His hands ran down her back, molding her to him. Though she might have satisfied her need to touch others through massage, she’d been starved for the feel of a man’s hands on her body. Need flooded through her, had her almost whimpering for more.
Long minutes passed as they dove into one another, mouths locked, hands roving. The soft release of breath punctuated the silence. Becka ran her fingers across his cheek and into his hair, even as Mace made a sound low in his throat and pulled her closer.
Mace had kissed her out of curiosity and desire. He’d no idea that kissing her would be like a fist in his gut, robbing him of air, making his head whirl, leaving him weak. Her mouth was a ripe, red fruit, tempting him to devour. It was too much, he thought dimly as he feasted on her lips, but he was powerless to stop himself.
The lithe, taut feel of her against him sent his system into overdrive and he made a small growl of satisfaction. For nearly an hour he’d lain on the table, feeling the stroke of her hands driving him mad, using all his control to keep from rolling over and pulling her to him, knowing it was too soon to touch her. Now, he needed to stop, but he couldn’t resist tasting her just a little more deeply.
Mace’s fingers slid down to the waistband of Becka’s shorts, tugging her shirt loose so he could touch the smooth, silky skin of her back.
Becka sighed against him. The sudden surge of wanting overwhelmed her. Sensation vibrated through her, making her excruciatingly conscious of every atom of her body. She needed his hands on her everywhere, needed him to release her from the tension that was stringing her tight. It wrenched a moan from her and she moved to wrap her arms around his back. Her car keys slipped from her fingers to hit the floor with a jangle.
She jumped at the noise. Sanity came rushing back. What was she doing? Tumbling for him, just like every other woman he’d ever met? He wanted to know what she was like in bed, he’d said so, and he’d been halfway there. She pulled out of his arms and sucked in a long breath.
“Oh no, we’re not done yet.” Mace reached for her again, his eyes darkened to the shade of old amber.
“Yes we are.” Becka put a hand on his chest. True, it trembled a bit, and she had to fight the urge to stroke him, but at least she was making a stand. Even though all she wanted to do was wrench his clothes off and… “I hope you’ve satisfied your curiosity, Duvall. From now on, hands off.”
“On work time, sure.”
“All the time,” she retorted, tucking her shirttail back in. “Let me be really clear about this. I’m not interested in being part of your parade.” She looked him up and down. “You’ve been around the block a few too many times for me. Now if you’ll get your clothes on, I need to get home.”
Mace slipped his shirt on. Becka picked up her purse and keys and started to walk out the door. Swiftly, he reached out an arm and pulled her in close against him.
“Now let me be clear about something. There is no parade of women, I don’t give a damn what people say. My life is my own, not what the media makes it. As for you and I—”
“There is no you and I.” Becka pressed her hands against his chest and glared at him. “And if you think I’m going to sleep with you—”
Wicked amusement filled his eyes and he brought his mouth down to ravage hers until he felt her arms weaken and heard her soft sigh. Then he raised his head. “It’s not a matter of if, darlin’,” he said, staring into her dazed green eyes. “It’s a matter of when.”
And he walked out the door without another look.
5
THERE WAS NO DOUBT about it, moving sucked.
Becka took a deep breath and began lugging a box of pots and pans up the dark, narrow stairwell that led to her new apartment. Feeling blindly for each step, she concentrated on using her chin to stabilize the trio of stainless steel mixing bowls and plastic dish rack that she’d balanced on top of the box.
Bad enough she’d spent every spare minute in the past three days filling boxes, packing things in newspaper until her hands were black. Now she had to spend one of her rare and precious days off hauling them over to the new apartment. Only the prospect of eliminating her commute made the project even remotely tolerable.
A soft tearing sound warned her that the box she carried was failing rapidly. Obviously, it was going downhill more quickly than she’d expected when she’d packed it, she thought, trying to speed up.
The box gave another alarming rending sound as Becka emerged onto the landing. She lurched to get her fingers under it just as the mixing bowls slid from under her chin to cascade onto the battered hardwood floor of the hall. The dish rack followed as the box canted to one side, and Becka fought to get a grip on the weakening bottom. Just a few more steps, she thought, fumbling for her doorknob. Just a few more steps and she’d be able to—
The bottom of the box gave way. Pots and pans clattered out, lids rolling to the walls or circling with metallic ringing sounds. Finally Becka gave up and just dropped the box in disgust, with grim enjoyment at the crash.
There was a loud thump from behind the door opposite hers, a barking voice that ascended in volume as Becka stared at the door in alarm. “Hey, can’t a person get a little sleep around here?”