Free Lure of the Wicked by Karina Cooper Page B

teeth.
    The flash of white, of damp pink as her lip caught on the edge of pale tape, was sexier than a sweat-soaked, punch-happy, troublemaking heiress had any right to be.
    “Here,” he said gruffly, closing the distance between them with a few short strides. He wrapped his fingers around her sweaty wrist, gently angling her arm around so he could find the edges of the tape.
    It put him too close to her. Too close to the adrenaline-fueled fragrance of her damp skin, to the smell of the soap she’d used in her hair, like spring rain and lavender.
    Too close to her upturned eyes staring into his.
    The sticky tape caught at his fingertips, resisted. Tore. As he unwound it, layer by layer, something in her stance changed. Shifted. He looked up, met her eyes as she stepped closer, fully into his space. Bare, taped feet to his polished shoes. Sleek, muscled thigh to his slacks.
    Chest to chest.
    Eye to eye.
    Phin’s fingers tightened on her wrist. It was all he could do to force back the awareness, a wild temptation that unfurled in him like a banner. A silent, echoing cry. “Naomi—”
    Her eyes lit. “Shut up, Mr. Clarke.”
    He did. The instant she leaned forward and fused her mouth to his, he had nothing left to say. Control be damned. Barely leashed desire detonated in his head, shredded every trace of common sense as heat spiraled from her lips to his. Her free hand fisted in his collar, captured him close as her mouth opened, beckoned.
    Aggressive. Demanding. She was all that and something a thousand times more primal as her tongue swept into his mouth; the velvet stroke of her tongue slid against his and he surged forward, slammed her back against the rough bag.
    Phin wasn’t going to stand there and let her think she had him. Even if she did.
    Even if he knew he’d already lost.
    The impact rocked them closer together, threatened to knock them over until she braced her legs against the floor and pushed back against the swaying bag.
    He stepped into the welcoming vee of her legs, trapped her against his chest, his hips, the hard edge of his erection. Perfect, spiraling focus, a point of pleasure so intense he could only revel in the mind-shattering heat of her body, the soft curves compounded by elastic muscle.
    Just the feel of her, the scent of her damp skin, was enough.
    Enough to scream a warning. To wave red flags in his mind’s eye. “Jesus,” he managed, his voice strained as she tore her mouth from his. Naomi’s laughter drifted like smoke over his jaw, his neck. Her hips tilted, ground against him, and Phin groaned as he seized her waist.
    Too hot. Too fast.
    He hadn’t wanted to push her.
    Taut with the effort, his hands strained against every impulse to haul her closer. To pull her into his skin and burn them both up to ash. She had to slow down, he had to slow down before she stroked him right into an explosive orgasm he wasn’t prepared for.
    But Naomi wasn’t letting him play nice.
    The sharp edge of her teeth bit a line of fire into the skin of his neck. He gasped, pleasure and pain combined into a wild surge of need. “Naomi—”
    “No,” she murmured. She lifted her head, pulled her fingers through his hair to meet his gaze with a glittering need of her own. She twisted, throwing a leg over his thigh. His hips jerked of their own accord, and he gritted his teeth. Locked every muscle.
    Just the press of her body. Jesus, just the demand, her laughter. Unable to help himself, he slid his palms up the sleek heat of her flat belly. Her ribs. He found the edge of her cropped tank top, worked underneath to encircle one constrained breast.
    She filled his hand perfectly. Her nipple peaked hard into his palm, and he groaned. Her breath hissed out from between her teeth.
    Phin found his hands full of ice and fire, of silk and steel. All the conundrums he didn’t know how to tame, not right now.
    Maybe not ever.
    She curved into his body like he was the last thing she’d ever need, and the heady