Page 58 of Breaking the Ice

Finally glancing up from the book, she rolled her eyes at him. “Okay. His name was a little… unexpected. But he seemed lovely and he didn’t rubbish Jess’s necklace, which is more than can be said for you.”

“Well he wouldn’t, would he? With a name like that you would expect him to have an appreciation of early childhood art.”

“The man can’t help his name.”

“Think about it, Samantha. Can you really imagine calling out his name while you’re doing the wild thing with him? It’ll sound like you’re calling a dog.”

She huffed loudly but Nick could see her lips twitch then press together as if to stop herself from laughing. But then her stomach chose that moment to let out a thundering growl and Nick’s went out in sympathy and they both burst out laughing.

“We’ve been in this elevator together too long.” He grinned. “Our stomachs have synced.”

She laughed again, her necklace rattling a little from the movement, drawing his gaze like a moth to flame. The blackened shards of cannelloni hung in all their broken, uncooked glory. It was completely unappetizing but right now it looked like a goddam feast and Nick wanted nothing more than to eat it right off her neck.

“You know,” he said, his laughter ebbing, “we’ve had a food source all along.”

Her laughter also petered out as she glanced at her chest. “No.” She looked up, her eyes meeting his as she shook her head. “I might be starving but I am not that desperate.”

Nick knew how she felt except now the idea was out there, it wouldn’t go away. Eating food off her skin, even uncooked and dyed black, was suddenly all he could think about.

Pushing to all fours, Nick quirked an eyebrow. “Just a nibble?”

“Nick.”

He wasn’t sure if the tone in her voice was a warning to stop or a plea to come closer. All he knew was she was watching him intently and nothing could have stopped him creeping slowly forward, watching her watch him get ever closer.

“Nick.”

Her voice was husky and tremulous, still sounding halfway between invitation and warning as he inched closer. He stopped when he could get no closer, his fingers brushing the denim of her thighs, his head angling to access her neck, the pulse of her carotid a hypnotic flutter.

“It’ll taste awful,” she whispered, a hitch in her breath.

“To hell with the pasta,” he growled, lifting his chin, bringing their mouths level, the husky stir of her breath playing on his face. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

Nick closed the distance between them, his lips pressing to hers and he knew he was wrong. So wrong. He was very,veryhungry.

Hell,he wanted to spend the rest of his life kissing her.

The kiss escalated dramatically along with his heart rate and, before he knew it, they were both on their knees in the middle of the lift, trolleys on one side, the back wall of the lift on the other, his bodyburning upas it pressed to hers, his hands sliding to her ass, cupping it, urging her closer, stoking and soothing the ache in his groin at the same time.

Yes.This. Withher.Onlywith her.

Nick pushed his tongue into her mouth and devoured the nonsensical noises of pleasure rising from her throat, giving her some of his own as she ground against him muttering, “Yes, Nick. God, yes,” turning his already raging boner to stone and he knew he’d willingly stay in this broken-down elevator forever if she kept saying his name like that.

Like only he could make her feel what she was feeling.

Nick was used to women calling his name, screaming it as he drove the puck toward the net, but this wasn’t adulation or hero worship. It wasn’t performative.

It was the real deal.

As one, they sank to the floor, her legs spreading to accommodate him then clamping around his hips, holding him tight and moaning his name like she couldn’t get enough. And he knew exactly how she felt, his skin sizzling, his breath heaving, almost crazed with the desire to feel her clamped tight around him from theinside.

Then the phone rang.

It pierced their passion as easily as bullets through butter and Nick sat back abruptly as if he was a horny fifteen-year-old sprung by an angry father. His heart thundered in his ribcage as he dragged in breaths, watching Samantha lying motionless, blinking in confusion as if coming out of a trance, her chest moving as erratically as his.

“Nick?” she asked, clearly as nonplussed as he as to how they’d gone from sitting upright and reading to horizontal and grinding on each other.

The phone jangled on his last nerve and, on autopilot, Nick stood and turned away, taking the two paces in its direction, opening the door and snatching up the receiver.

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