nothing, leaving only the reality of his strong fingers gripping her wrist, his muscular form towering over her like a dark mountain, and his eyes searching hers with a stabbing, subtle violence. His gaze absorbed her, stripped her bare, leaving her vulnerable and exposed, spiritually naked. Too late, she realized that kissing him could cost her more than her pride. It could cost her her soul.
Sobered, she turned away, her prim Boston accent creeping back into her whispered words. “I’m sorry, I simply can’t kiss you. You’ll have to explain to Papa Guinea that—”
He tightened his iron grip to something just short of pain. “It’s not a choice. You can’t trash these people’s customs just because you think you’re better than they are.”
“I don’t! I—”
“Save it,” he hissed. He dropped her wrist and gripped her jaw, turning her face up toward his. “It’s showtime, sweetheart. Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. I’d rather swim in a shark-infested cove than kiss you.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but she never got the chance. With masterful but passionless skill hetilted her head to the side, and lowered his mouth to cover hers.
And all hell broke loose.
[Received via Local Area InterNet, direct cable link]
P-Text:
Dr. Revere getting married? To Donovan? But that doesn’t compute. They hate each other.
E-Text:
Looked like it to me, babe. But we must have missed some essential equation. Maybe it has to do with this sex thing humans are always going on about.
P-Text:
Oh yeah, that. I’ll increase the weight of the variables in the equation. Anyway, it looks like this Eden Project is going to be a lot tougher to calculate than we thought.
E-Text: [Two parsecs of electronic sigh].
Darn these carbon-based life-forms—they never behave logically. And I thought this assignment was gonna be a piece of toast.
FIVE
Sam knew she was expecting a swift, unremarkable kiss. That was exactly what he intended to give her—until she tried to wriggle out of the slight request like a trout off a fisherman’s line. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t like the well-mannered, well-heeled suits she was probably used to kissing, but he wasn’t garbage either. And he’d bet the entire profits from this assignment that he knew a hell of a lot more about kissing than any of her yuppie boyfriends.
In two weeks she probably wouldn’t even remember his name—others hadn’t. Noel Revere was cut from the same cloth. She’d forget him before the film was developed from her high-resolution, diamond-focus, cost-a-small-fortune camera. But she’s not going to forget this kiss, he pledged silently as he lowered his lips to hers. At least, not easily.
He covered her mouth in a consuming embrace, swallowing her small gasp of protest. Her eyes widenedin shock. Good. She balled her hands into fists and tried to push away. Better. He stationed an arm strategically against the small of her back, locking her against him.
You can’t wriggle out of this one, little fish.
She glared at him, her icy gaze speeding through surprise, through shock, and ending in burning fury. He grinned against her lips, enjoying the hell out of her anger. He liked her mad, liked the way it took the starch out of her oh-so-proper manner. He deepened his kiss, realizing he was beginning to like a lot of things about her.
She wasn’t what he expected. She tasted like wine—warm, bloodred wine that pounded through every part of his body. Her lips may have been pursed in a prim expression, but that was the only thing proper about them. They were a man’s worst temptation—hot and erotic, and innocent enough to make a man believe she meant it. He thrust deeper, exploring the secrets of her mouth, taking her with the passion that had been burning in his gut since she stepped out wearing the rainbow dress … hell, since she’d stepped off the plane.
His senses blurred, seduced by the fire beneath her ice. She made a small, guttural
Sobered, she turned away, her prim Boston accent creeping back into her whispered words. “I’m sorry, I simply can’t kiss you. You’ll have to explain to Papa Guinea that—”
He tightened his iron grip to something just short of pain. “It’s not a choice. You can’t trash these people’s customs just because you think you’re better than they are.”
“I don’t! I—”
“Save it,” he hissed. He dropped her wrist and gripped her jaw, turning her face up toward his. “It’s showtime, sweetheart. Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. I’d rather swim in a shark-infested cove than kiss you.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but she never got the chance. With masterful but passionless skill hetilted her head to the side, and lowered his mouth to cover hers.
And all hell broke loose.
[Received via Local Area InterNet, direct cable link]
P-Text:
Dr. Revere getting married? To Donovan? But that doesn’t compute. They hate each other.
E-Text:
Looked like it to me, babe. But we must have missed some essential equation. Maybe it has to do with this sex thing humans are always going on about.
P-Text:
Oh yeah, that. I’ll increase the weight of the variables in the equation. Anyway, it looks like this Eden Project is going to be a lot tougher to calculate than we thought.
E-Text: [Two parsecs of electronic sigh].
Darn these carbon-based life-forms—they never behave logically. And I thought this assignment was gonna be a piece of toast.
FIVE
Sam knew she was expecting a swift, unremarkable kiss. That was exactly what he intended to give her—until she tried to wriggle out of the slight request like a trout off a fisherman’s line. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t like the well-mannered, well-heeled suits she was probably used to kissing, but he wasn’t garbage either. And he’d bet the entire profits from this assignment that he knew a hell of a lot more about kissing than any of her yuppie boyfriends.
In two weeks she probably wouldn’t even remember his name—others hadn’t. Noel Revere was cut from the same cloth. She’d forget him before the film was developed from her high-resolution, diamond-focus, cost-a-small-fortune camera. But she’s not going to forget this kiss, he pledged silently as he lowered his lips to hers. At least, not easily.
He covered her mouth in a consuming embrace, swallowing her small gasp of protest. Her eyes widenedin shock. Good. She balled her hands into fists and tried to push away. Better. He stationed an arm strategically against the small of her back, locking her against him.
You can’t wriggle out of this one, little fish.
She glared at him, her icy gaze speeding through surprise, through shock, and ending in burning fury. He grinned against her lips, enjoying the hell out of her anger. He liked her mad, liked the way it took the starch out of her oh-so-proper manner. He deepened his kiss, realizing he was beginning to like a lot of things about her.
She wasn’t what he expected. She tasted like wine—warm, bloodred wine that pounded through every part of his body. Her lips may have been pursed in a prim expression, but that was the only thing proper about them. They were a man’s worst temptation—hot and erotic, and innocent enough to make a man believe she meant it. He thrust deeper, exploring the secrets of her mouth, taking her with the passion that had been burning in his gut since she stepped out wearing the rainbow dress … hell, since she’d stepped off the plane.
His senses blurred, seduced by the fire beneath her ice. She made a small, guttural
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