Free Hot in Here by Lori Foster

“Hey? What’s wrong?”
    Almost too overwhelmed to speak, Clair shook her head, then confessed, “I was...worried.”
    “I’m sorry.” He smoothed her back, returned her bear hug, then caught her arm and urged her inside.
    He was sorry? Agog, Clair tried to acclimate herself to Harris’s new persona, to his easy acceptance. What did it mean?
    His voice low and somber, he said, “Let me shower again and change, then we’ll talk.”
    Clair watched him walk away, and he was whistling. The exhaustion remained, in the set of his shoulders, the dark smudges beneath his eyes. But he seemed more lighthearted, as if she’d pleased him in some way.
    Clair looked around herself with dawning realization. Harris was in a mellow, receptive mood. His apartment, other than a small kitchen light, was dark. She had the perfect setting and probably wouldn’t get another chance like this anytime soon.
    Her heart in her throat, her pulse humming in anticipation, she trailed silently after him. She pushed open his bedroom door to see Harris standing in the middle of the floor, his shirt off, his shoes and socks gone, and his hands at the snap of his jeans.
    Almost there, she thought.
    Harris looked up, their gazes locked for long moments, and his expression heated. “Clair?”
    Not giving herself a chance to back out, she flipped the wall switch, stealing the scant light and filling the room with obscure moon shadows.
    Harris, now a vague shadowy blur, asked, “What’s this?”
    Cautiously moving forward, Clair found his chest, firm and sleek and very hot. She moved her hands up to his broad shoulders, then to the back of his neck. She pulled his head down to hers. “I was afraid for you.”
    His hands looped around her waist. “I’m good at what I do, honey. You don’t have to worry.”
    “You said sex would change things.” Clair tunneled her fingers into the cool softness of his thick hair, such a dramatic contrast to his hard, hot body. “Well, get used to me being concerned. I know you don’t like it. God knows you bitch enough any time a woman starts to worry, but if we have sex—”
    His hands widened, sliding down to her hips. “We are,” he murmured. “Right now in fact.”
    Clair drew in a breath. “Great. Then I have rights.”
    She could hear the smile in his voice when he asked, “The right to worry?”
    “You betcha. And I also—” He kissed her, cutting off her demands in midsentence. “Harris?”
    “I’m open to the new rules, honey. But let’s talk about them all in the morning.”
    Morning? The sun would be out, light flooding through the windows. “Do you expect me to stay the night?”
    “Damn right. Next to me. In my bed.”
    “Oh.” Maybe by then it wouldn’t matter. Maybe by then he’d realize that he wanted her and only her. Or maybe he’d even figure out that she and the mystery woman were one and the same.
    “You followed me into my bedroom, Clair. You’re claiming the right to worry. That gives me a few rights too. Like the right to make love to you all night long, whenever the mood strikes me.” His hands kept moving on her, caressing her back, her hips, her waist, stroking her, learning her in a way that had been forbidden before now. “In case you get antsy or horny,” he teased. He turned, took two steps and lowered them both to the bed, half covering her. In a near growl, he added, “Or if you just plain want me.”
    “I always want you.” Clair closed her eyes as his fingers found her inner thighs. Her heart pounded. “Harris?”
    “I smell like smoke,” he complained. With his mouth open and damp, he kissed her neck, her shoulder, leaving her skin tinging. “No matter how long I shower or how hard I scrub...”
    “I don’t mind.” Clair pressed her nose to his throat and inhaled. She wondered if the fires affected him that way, made him feel like he couldn’t get away from the smoke, the damage. She nuzzled against him. “All I smell is you, Harris, and