Page 29 of Love In Translation

He heard thewhoomphof her surprise and her small fist smacking his back. He walked out of the kitchen and jogged up the stairs.

“Fletcher! What the hell are you doing?”

He kicked open the door to his bedroom, pulled her down his body, and dumped her onto his bed. She pushed her hair out of her face, and he was relieved to see laughter in her eyes.

He shrugged and grinned. “I’m taking you to bed, and I intend to keep you here for the next few hours. Is that okay with you?”

Her smile smacked him in the solar plexus. “Yes, very okay. But your delivery needs work.”

His delivery, now and later, would be just fine.

Seven

Fletch pushed Rheo’s hair off her forehead, unable to wrench his eyes off her. Rheo was why his blood was hot, why his heart flip-flopped around his chest. Blue eyes and thick hair, mystery and marvel, secrets and shadows. And right now, she was the air he needed to breathe, the thump of his heart, the sigh of his soul.

Fletch touched her delicate jawline with his fingers, marveling at her scented smooth skin. He rested a thumb in the middle of her bottom lip, waiting to taste her because when he did, he’d devour her.

Lust, shocking and bright, powered through him, and he swayed, momentarily dizzy. He didn’t want to start because one kiss would bring him closer to an end.

He didn’t want this to end.

Yes, he wanted her, and he’d thought about this moment more often than was healthy. He wanted her when she made him smile—she had an extensive vocabulary of curses in six languages, and he was pretty sure he heard a Russian phrase the other day when she was arguing with her computer. When she sat on the step leading up to the kitchen door every morning, soaking in the sun as she slowly sipped an enormous mug of coffee.

She didn’t need to fill every moment with inane conversation, and at night, he loved stepping into the bathroom after her, savoring the steamy scents he only caught hints of during the day.

Fletch shook his head, irritated by his flight of fancy. He was a practical guy. As Rheo said, this was about sex. One night, some mutual pleasure. It had nothing to do with magic or moonbeams or fantasies.

He didn’t believe in forever.

But he still didn’t want to start...

Rheo pressed her lips against his, cool and smooth. She looped her arms around his neck, and her fantastic breasts, high and round, pushed into his pecs. Her scent, full of floral notes, filled his nose, and her hair fell over his hands as they rested on her back. He wouldn’t, couldn’t let go.

Relinquishing his self-control would be like riding a rocket, surfing a storm wave. Wildfire scary.

“Fletch.”

It was just his name, murmured against his mouth, but it was also a key to a lock. Nobody before had said his name the way she did, coated with need and a hint ofWhat was happening here?

“C’est dingue!”

There it was; the foreign phrase he’d been expecting. French? He had no idea what it meant, but it sounded sexy, and since her hands were streaking up his back, he presumed it was something complimentary.

Gripping the back of her head with his hand, he put his lips to hers, needing to explore the shape of her mouth, the contours of her lips. His hand skimmed up the back of her thigh, sliding under the denim to skim the curve of the butt he eyed any chance he got. He pressed the pad of his thumb to the middle of her bottom lip—the lip that got a little pouty when she didn’t get her way—and when her mouth opened to release a pleasure-filled gasp, he slipped inside, his tongue curling around hers. Pleasure rose and fell, built and built, as he changed angles...

She tasted of spice and sweetness, of sin and sex. And with every swipe of his tongue, he hardened, his cock straining against his zipper. He ached to have her. But not in a race-to-have-an-orgasm way; he wanted to see her skin flush with pleasure, to watch her blue eyes cloud with lust. He wanted to know whether they’d lighten or deepen when she came.

Kissing Rheo was like riding a fast-moving river, negotiating one thrilling rapid after another. A swoop of his stomach, a kick of his heart, a fall, lost in the white water of her kiss, finding air. Wild, wet, thrilling.

Rheo’s hands, elegant and clever, skated over his rib cage and tugged his shirt to find his bare skin. Her nails scraped his flat nipple, causing it to pebble. Rheo ripped his button-down shirt apart, and buttons flew, the material fraying. He didn’t give a shit. He liked that she was as desperate for him as he was for her. Dropping his hands from her body, he allowed her to push the shirt off his shoulders, and didn’t care when it fell to the floor in a tangled heap.

Fletch kissed his way down her throat, across her collarbone, and pulled her vest and bra strap down her tanned arm. He sucked the top of her breast, rubbed his chin over the lacy cup of her bra, grazing it with his teeth. When she whimpered, he sucked her nipple, fabric and all, into his mouth. Rheo shuddered, and his name was both a curse and a prayer on her lips.

“Miss your mouth,” Rheo muttered.

Fletch took her lips and fed her long, slow kisses. Kisses with no beginning and no end. Rheo’s hands skimmed across his body, eager to discover the next bit of skin, the next bump in his spine. She pushed her palm down the back of his pants held up by a thin leather belt, growling when she couldn’t cup his ass.

Fletch lifted his head to smile at her. “If you want my clothes off, honey, just ask,” he teased.

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