pounded up and into her ears. She pressed herself to him, flush and needy.
But close wasn't close enough. She pressed harder into the heated length of him, knew there was open hunger in her eyes when she lifted her misty gaze to his intense one. Every feminine sinew and nerve in her body strained and spiked, fired by anticipation, the seductive promise inherent in Cal's hardened masculinity.
Cal pulled back, his eyes black in the dim light of the entrance lit only by a nightlight near the door. He took her face in his hands. "You do have a bedroom, don't you?"
"Huh?"
"A bedroom." He touched her lips with his tongue, kissed her again, and whispered roughly, "One of those places where a woman takes a man when she wants to have her way with him."
Ginger forced herself to blink, got lost in visions of exactly what way it would be, couldn't speak. He pulled her against him and kissed her again, then moved back. "I'm dying here, Ginger."
She grabbed his hand. "This way." She towed him down the hall and into her bedroom—to the big awkward moment, the unavoidable segue between the heat of kisses and the turning down of cool sheets for the purpose of hot sex.
Cal shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it on a chair. She saw him roll his head, as if to ease tight muscles.
Instead of throwing her on the bed and himself with her, he looked around. She followed his gaze, saw again the riot of green, blue, and gold—the wild mix of prints that made up her bed. Cal was suddenly anything but wild.
"Nice," he said and nodded toward the glowing nightlight on her dresser. "You sleep with a light on?"
"Only when I have sex," she said, determined to ruffle Mr. Cool's male feathers.
His face held sin and mischief, and his smile was slow. "Which hasn't been too often of late, I understand." He closed the distance between them. Ginger kept her hands behind her and gripped the doorknob as if it were all that stood between her and an eighty-foot wave. The smell of him clawed her, his clean scent mingling with the lavender potpourri she kept on her dresser.
He gripped her shoulders. "Have you ever made love in that bed?"
Ginger was caught off guard by the question. "No," she said, and frowned, for the first time wondering why she'd never brought anyone home. She could have, but she never did.
He lifted her chin with his knuckles. "Ever fucked in that bed?"
A breathy gasp escaped her mouth, and it was a second or two before she got the word out. "No."
"Good." His gaze went from her face to her hair, and he ran his index finger along her hairline, down and across her cheek, then kissed her. "That makes this a first," he murmured, and kissed her again. A kiss with butterfly wings and dark wishes.
"First what?" she asked. "Lovemaking or fuck?"
He gave her a direct gaze. "If we're lucky... both." His eyes, rich with desire, settled on her face. He tilted his head to watch when he asked, "You have a preference?"
Ginger's breath grew quiet in her throat. She released her viselike grip on the doorknob, brought her hands around and rested her palms on his chest. His white shirt was cotton soft, under it his muscles were warm, straight, and firm. "No." She slid a hand to his heart, felt its deep thud under her palm. "I just want"—the words honest potential came to mind. She replaced them with, "Sex... good sex. No. Make that great sex." Defined as a series of flame-out, body-numbing orgasms that will make me shift in my chair when I'm ninety. Add to that she'd be okay with the outside chance of something other than hello-that-was-great-sex-good-bye. Her life so far. In the same instant she reminded herself, Cal was just another handsome face, a fabled womanizer. She would not allow herself expectations. Other than fun.
He tilted his head, and the lazy confident look he gave her made her elbows sweat. "It's been a while for me, too. Truth is, I've been living like a goddamn monk for months now."
"And this is what? An apology in advance for
But close wasn't close enough. She pressed harder into the heated length of him, knew there was open hunger in her eyes when she lifted her misty gaze to his intense one. Every feminine sinew and nerve in her body strained and spiked, fired by anticipation, the seductive promise inherent in Cal's hardened masculinity.
Cal pulled back, his eyes black in the dim light of the entrance lit only by a nightlight near the door. He took her face in his hands. "You do have a bedroom, don't you?"
"Huh?"
"A bedroom." He touched her lips with his tongue, kissed her again, and whispered roughly, "One of those places where a woman takes a man when she wants to have her way with him."
Ginger forced herself to blink, got lost in visions of exactly what way it would be, couldn't speak. He pulled her against him and kissed her again, then moved back. "I'm dying here, Ginger."
She grabbed his hand. "This way." She towed him down the hall and into her bedroom—to the big awkward moment, the unavoidable segue between the heat of kisses and the turning down of cool sheets for the purpose of hot sex.
Cal shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it on a chair. She saw him roll his head, as if to ease tight muscles.
Instead of throwing her on the bed and himself with her, he looked around. She followed his gaze, saw again the riot of green, blue, and gold—the wild mix of prints that made up her bed. Cal was suddenly anything but wild.
"Nice," he said and nodded toward the glowing nightlight on her dresser. "You sleep with a light on?"
"Only when I have sex," she said, determined to ruffle Mr. Cool's male feathers.
His face held sin and mischief, and his smile was slow. "Which hasn't been too often of late, I understand." He closed the distance between them. Ginger kept her hands behind her and gripped the doorknob as if it were all that stood between her and an eighty-foot wave. The smell of him clawed her, his clean scent mingling with the lavender potpourri she kept on her dresser.
He gripped her shoulders. "Have you ever made love in that bed?"
Ginger was caught off guard by the question. "No," she said, and frowned, for the first time wondering why she'd never brought anyone home. She could have, but she never did.
He lifted her chin with his knuckles. "Ever fucked in that bed?"
A breathy gasp escaped her mouth, and it was a second or two before she got the word out. "No."
"Good." His gaze went from her face to her hair, and he ran his index finger along her hairline, down and across her cheek, then kissed her. "That makes this a first," he murmured, and kissed her again. A kiss with butterfly wings and dark wishes.
"First what?" she asked. "Lovemaking or fuck?"
He gave her a direct gaze. "If we're lucky... both." His eyes, rich with desire, settled on her face. He tilted his head to watch when he asked, "You have a preference?"
Ginger's breath grew quiet in her throat. She released her viselike grip on the doorknob, brought her hands around and rested her palms on his chest. His white shirt was cotton soft, under it his muscles were warm, straight, and firm. "No." She slid a hand to his heart, felt its deep thud under her palm. "I just want"—the words honest potential came to mind. She replaced them with, "Sex... good sex. No. Make that great sex." Defined as a series of flame-out, body-numbing orgasms that will make me shift in my chair when I'm ninety. Add to that she'd be okay with the outside chance of something other than hello-that-was-great-sex-good-bye. Her life so far. In the same instant she reminded herself, Cal was just another handsome face, a fabled womanizer. She would not allow herself expectations. Other than fun.
He tilted his head, and the lazy confident look he gave her made her elbows sweat. "It's been a while for me, too. Truth is, I've been living like a goddamn monk for months now."
"And this is what? An apology in advance for
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