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Authors: Cindy Gerard
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tugged her head back so he could look into her eyes. With his other hand he stroked his knuckles along her jaw, studying her face with eyes as hot as burning embers.
“You’re playing with fire, little bird.” He gave her hair a hard, but not hurtful, tug for emphasis. “If you come back to play again, make no mistake—you’re going to get your feathers burned. And then we’re both going to be sorry.”
With a last dark look, he lifted her off his lap, set her down hard on the table and sprinted toward the loft.
“Oh, boy,” Mackenzie breathed, lifting her hands to her cheeks and feeling the burn.
Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. Nothing even remotely like that had ever happened to her. She wasn’t a virgin—but she’d strayed into virgin territory just now. At twenty-six, she’d had exactly two lovers in her life. One she’d intended to marry. When he’d skipped out for a thirty-six C-cup and an inheritance, she’d cried on a friend’s shoulder. He’d been more than sympathetic. He’d taken her to his bed in a misguided attempt at loving away the pain.
In the end it had been a big mistake. But not nearly as huge as her little plan to seduce Abel Greene.
Neither one of her previous relationships had lit a fire like the one he’d just started. Sex with Steven had been safe, secure and totally predictable. Sex with Brian had been sweet and gentle. One brief, wild encounter with Abel Greene—hardly more than a kiss, really—had served notice on all of her erogenous zones that sex with this man would be unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
“Oh, boy,” she murmured again. His morning stubble had left an erotically pleasant burn on the tender flesh of her breast. She touched her fingers to her mouth, still sensitized and gently throbbing from his kisses. And she felt the aching heat between her thighs that even now, after he’d dumped her on the table, grew in intensity.
“He’s right about one thing,” she mumbled, burying her face in her hands. “Fire has never burned this hot.”
Gingerly she scooted off the table. With a trembling hand, she finger-combed her hair, made a valiant attempt at setting her clothes right and walked on shaky legs toward the loft.
Only a fool would follow him. But only a coward would avoid another confrontation. Besides, she needed an ally. Maybe she and Nashata could bond during the birth experience. And maybe she could use the time to figure out who had gotten the best of whom just now in Abel Greene’s kitchen.
The birth process was new to Mackenzie. It was also everything it was cracked up to be. Frightening, enlightening, heartwarming. It was, in short, a miracle. It wasn’t just the miracle of the new life of four wiggling, grunting puppies that brought tears to Mackenzie’s eyes. It was the miracle of watching Mark let go of some of his street-smart, tough-guy machismo that he wore like barbwire around the sensitive and giving boy he’d once been.
She wasn’t sure when or how it had happened, but somewhere between dusk and dawn, Mark and Nashata had found some common ground. And somewhere between adolescence and innocence, the sweet, impressionable little boy she’d watched grow into a troubled teen had turned a corner back toward the straight and narrow.
It was in the midst of this secondary miracle and Nashata’s spellbinding, three-hour ordeal, that the storm finally blew itself out. Mark, hovering like a fascinated midwife over Nashata and her brood, didn’t notice the welcome intrusion of crisp, clear sunlight streaming through the peaks of the cathedral windows running the length of the loft.
Mackenzie noticed. She noticed the sudden absence of the tumultuous wind. She noticed the wary stillness of the man at her side. And she noticed the moment when the focus of his attention had shifted from Nashata and her pups to her face.
She felt the effect of his laser-sharp gaze in the places where he’d kissed her. She
“You’re playing with fire, little bird.” He gave her hair a hard, but not hurtful, tug for emphasis. “If you come back to play again, make no mistake—you’re going to get your feathers burned. And then we’re both going to be sorry.”
With a last dark look, he lifted her off his lap, set her down hard on the table and sprinted toward the loft.
“Oh, boy,” Mackenzie breathed, lifting her hands to her cheeks and feeling the burn.
Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. Nothing even remotely like that had ever happened to her. She wasn’t a virgin—but she’d strayed into virgin territory just now. At twenty-six, she’d had exactly two lovers in her life. One she’d intended to marry. When he’d skipped out for a thirty-six C-cup and an inheritance, she’d cried on a friend’s shoulder. He’d been more than sympathetic. He’d taken her to his bed in a misguided attempt at loving away the pain.
In the end it had been a big mistake. But not nearly as huge as her little plan to seduce Abel Greene.
Neither one of her previous relationships had lit a fire like the one he’d just started. Sex with Steven had been safe, secure and totally predictable. Sex with Brian had been sweet and gentle. One brief, wild encounter with Abel Greene—hardly more than a kiss, really—had served notice on all of her erogenous zones that sex with this man would be unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
“Oh, boy,” she murmured again. His morning stubble had left an erotically pleasant burn on the tender flesh of her breast. She touched her fingers to her mouth, still sensitized and gently throbbing from his kisses. And she felt the aching heat between her thighs that even now, after he’d dumped her on the table, grew in intensity.
“He’s right about one thing,” she mumbled, burying her face in her hands. “Fire has never burned this hot.”
Gingerly she scooted off the table. With a trembling hand, she finger-combed her hair, made a valiant attempt at setting her clothes right and walked on shaky legs toward the loft.
Only a fool would follow him. But only a coward would avoid another confrontation. Besides, she needed an ally. Maybe she and Nashata could bond during the birth experience. And maybe she could use the time to figure out who had gotten the best of whom just now in Abel Greene’s kitchen.
The birth process was new to Mackenzie. It was also everything it was cracked up to be. Frightening, enlightening, heartwarming. It was, in short, a miracle. It wasn’t just the miracle of the new life of four wiggling, grunting puppies that brought tears to Mackenzie’s eyes. It was the miracle of watching Mark let go of some of his street-smart, tough-guy machismo that he wore like barbwire around the sensitive and giving boy he’d once been.
She wasn’t sure when or how it had happened, but somewhere between dusk and dawn, Mark and Nashata had found some common ground. And somewhere between adolescence and innocence, the sweet, impressionable little boy she’d watched grow into a troubled teen had turned a corner back toward the straight and narrow.
It was in the midst of this secondary miracle and Nashata’s spellbinding, three-hour ordeal, that the storm finally blew itself out. Mark, hovering like a fascinated midwife over Nashata and her brood, didn’t notice the welcome intrusion of crisp, clear sunlight streaming through the peaks of the cathedral windows running the length of the loft.
Mackenzie noticed. She noticed the sudden absence of the tumultuous wind. She noticed the wary stillness of the man at her side. And she noticed the moment when the focus of his attention had shifted from Nashata and her pups to her face.
She felt the effect of his laser-sharp gaze in the places where he’d kissed her. She
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