by Mara Jacobs
***
Grace retreated a step. He didn’t mean what she wanted him to mean––that she was special enough to make him forget his stupid relationship rules. No, Ramos was all about the licking. She took a deep breath. He tracked her movement, eyes focused on the neckline of her dress. Her breasts felt plumper, the material of the dress too tight. Nerves fired along every inch of her body at the same time she felt her muscles loosen. How could he do that to her, without even touching her? “Everywhere you look at me, my skin gets hot. Confess. You’re one of those experimental government agents with superpowers. You’ve got a pair of high-tech ocular laser implants.”
Leo choked out a half laugh, half groan.
The sound was like a rough caress. Grace shivered and rubbed her hand against her arm. The touch felt so good her palm kept moving in a slow glide to her bare shoulder. Leo’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed as they followed the motion of her hand. Fascinated by his reaction, she let her nails scrape lightly across her collarbone and slid a finger down to the single, cream-colored pearl that rested just above the quick rise and fall of her breast.
His body stilled. Her adrenalin surged, and it wasn’t because of fear.
“I want to watch you touch yourself everywhere, Devine. And then I want to follow your hand with my tongue, tasting every inch of you.”
She fisted the pearl to keep her hand from jerking down her neckline.
He sucked in a deep breath. “Privacy was a mistake. We need to get out of here.” He didn’t move. “You’re not a quick fuck in an exercise room.”
“I could be.” Yes, that had come out of her mouth. She hadn’t even had anything to drink and she meant it.
He gave a huff that could have been laughter. “Damn it, Devine. I like you too much.”
“And you only have quick fucks with people you don’t like?” He said nothing, his gaze fixed on the wall over her shoulder as if he couldn’t trust himself to look at her. “What’s too much?”
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to respond to that question, either. Then he sighed and met her eyes. “Too much is when I can’t stop thinking about you. Too much is when I don’t care about anything but this.” His hands were suddenly on her bare shoulders. He yanked her against his chest, bent his head and covered her lips with his.
Sensation, like a hot tendril of smoke, curled through her body. Despite his swift move, there was nothing hurried about his exploration of her mouth. He kissed her slowly and thoroughly, as if he had done so a thousand times before, as if she belonged in his arms. One hand cradled the back of her head, holding her still as his tongue teased the corner of her lips and then plunged into her mouth, deepening the kiss.
Grace didn’t melt against him. The emotions that ripped through her at his forceful move were not soft and gentle; they roared––a forest fire, all-consuming, uncontrollable. Her hands gripped strong muscle. If she didn’t have the damn Cinderella dress on, she could straddle his waist.
She unhooked his cummerbund and flung it, lips never leaving his. He worked the zipper at her side, lowering it to her waist. She pulled the shirt out of his pants, desperate to touch his skin. He pushed her bodice down and his hand came between them to cup one breast still encased in a strapless bra. Grace reached for his trouser zipper. His hand smacked against hers, stopping the action, molding her palm against his hard length.
He broke the kiss and she took several quick breaths, her gaze caught in his.
“You are so beautiful.” His free hand shaped her breast. Grace shivered at the flair of pleasure. His hand slid to the front clasp of her bra and he unhooked it. The bra fell to their feet.
He pulsed and hardened under her hand. His eyes were dark, almost black. He dipped his head, and his tongue––slightly rough and damp––dragged across her nipple.
Her head fell back and she pressed her hand harder against him. “Damn it. Let me get this zipper down.”
He groaned something in Spanish and then he lifted her hand and pressed it against his chest. She could feel the steady thunder of his heartbeat. “I’m an asshole, but I’m not this big an asshole.” That was English, but still incomprehensible. He backed a step away.
Her body shook in protest and her heart actually hurt. “What does that mean, Ramos?”
“It means we need to talk.” His eyes were dark and serious. His hair was disheveled and his shirttail was only partially tucked into his pants. Several buttons of his shirt were undone and his bow tie was missing, though she had no memory of yanking it off.
The man who’d slept with half of Washington, D.C., wanted to talk when she stood half-naked in front of him. This, combined with her inability to keep a date on New Year’s Eve, would undoubtedly drive her to therapy. Or to a Victoria’s Secret catalog. No, the therapy would be cheaper.
She picked up her bra and fumbled with the catch until she got it latched. With a quick yank, she pulled up the bodice of the gown and zipped it. She couldn’t think, but her lips still formed sentences. “We have nothing to talk about. You’re not an asshole, you’re a true gentleman. I get it. End of conversation.”
“Devine.” His tone was almost gentle.
She held up her hand, determined to stop the embarrassing excuses. “I work around men. I understand testosterone.”
He put his hands in his trouser pockets, not bothering to tuck in his shirt. “You do?”
“I know what just happened doesn’t mean anything. I understand men’s bodies and their brains don’t always work in tandem and sometimes hormones win out.”
“Who’s been feeding you that bullshit?” His voice was dry. “I’m not sixteen. My brain has been determining my behavior for a long time now.”
“Obviously.” Grace took a deep breath. Her heart beat so fast she was starting to feel dizzy. If Ramos had his way, they’d leave this room the way they entered––good pals, friends without benefits. In a couple of months, she’d join Michael’s task force and leave Washington. The impossible, infuriating, fascinating Ramos would just be a memory, a lost opportunity, a what-if fantasy for lonely nights.
“C’mon.” He turned toward the door with an unusually jerky movement. “I need a drink and I think it’s safer to talk in the bar.”
“I have a proposition for you,” her voice rushed out when his hand closed over the door handle.
“What now?” Leo turned toward her, impatient and apparently eager to be out of the room.
“To recap,” she talked fast, before her nerve left her. “A quickie in the exercise room is too short for your sense of honor, and I’m not a candidate for your usual flavor-of-the-month relationships.”
“Correct. You will never be one of my flavor-of-the-month women.”
She ignored the jolt of pain at his firm declaration. “Yes, well, you’ve been quite clear on that point. So I’m proposing something different.”
“What?”
Hell if she knew. “A micro-relationship,” she blurted.
“A what?” An oddly arrested expression settled on his face.
“We’ll have two hours together tonight where I’ll be Grace and you’ll be Leo.” Her voice was firmer now. She actually liked this idea. “We’ll dance, tell each other things about ourselves the other doesn’t know, and do things like….” She paused, considering how to make this different than one of their movie nights. “Flirt!”
Okay, maybe that wasn’t quite how Tess suggested getting him out of her system, but since kissing him had caused him to turn tail and run, she was out of options.
“That’s ridiculous. Whoever heard of a micro-relationship?” He actually looked upset.
“You’re the one who puts time limits on relationships,” she pointed out.
“Even I never put a two-hour time limit on a relationship.”
“I’m an innovator. Look at it this way––we get the thrill of a new relationship and the drama of the break-up all in one evening. None of the boring you-leave-your-s
ocks-on-the-floor stuff that happens in the middle. It’s pure excitement from start to finish. What’s not to love?” Grace spread her arms and smiled. There was so much not to love about it that she could fall asleep counting the reasons. But if it was two hours or nothing, screw the reasons.
