Page 4 of On His Knees

I inhale, and little lightning bolts of electricity zing though my body when I catch his scent. Sun. Outdoors. One hundred percent hot male. Every bone in my body wants him. I honestly can’t ever remember reacting so strongly to the opposite sex before, but this guy, holy hell, he has me rethinking my stance on one-night stands. Or maybe one-week stands. Something tells me one night wouldn’t be enough to sample everything he has to offer. My mind races, the vision of him warming my currently chilled body beneath the sheets stirs the desire within me. I hadn’t planned to have a vacation fling when I arrived here two days ago, but now...

“Summer,” I say on a breathless whisper.

Tate frowns, and glances at the snow-covered hill. Then he turns back to me and gives me a look that suggests I’m a snow bunny with little going on upstairs. “Could have fooled me.”

“No,” I say. “That’s my name.” I don’t bother telling him my last name. While on vacation, I just want to be Summer, not Doctor Love. Ironic really, since Doctor Love can’t find love. But seriously, when guys find out I’m a doctor, it somehow intimidates them, scares them off. Just once in my life I want a guy to look at me as a woman—the way Tate is looking at me right now. Although there is something about him, something confident and powerful that says he wouldn’t be intimidated by anyone or anything. A fine shiver moves through my blood and settles deep in my core at that thought.

He takes my gloved hand in his bare one, and shakes it. “I know it’s probably a little late for a proper introduction,” he says, that sexy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth again.

I lift my chin. “You mean because of the groping?”

He laughs, and the sound awakens all my dormant parts. “I’m not sure I’d call it groping.”

“Then what would you call it?” I ask, surprised at my flirting. I was never very good at it.

He looks up to the left, like he’s thinking, then gives me a wink. “Maybe copping a feel?”

This time I laugh, but then I mentally kick myself for missing my chance to cop my own feel when he had his arms around me.

“I really am sorry.” He frowns. “I shouldn’t have touched you.” The sincerity edging his voice relaxes me.

“Don’t worry.” I give a wave of my hand to dismiss the incident. “I’m not going to report you.” Not only because it was an honest mistake, but because I damn well liked it.

He blows out a relieved breath. “Good. I need this job.” He lets go of my hand, and it falls to my side.

I glance at him again, admire his too longish hair, and athletic frame. “Ski instructor?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, I would have thought...” My words fall off as I let my gaze travel the length of his long, hard body. What would it feel like to have all two hundred pounds of him on top of me, or better yet, beneath me?

“Would have thought what?” he asks, his voice snapping me back to the present. God, girl, get it together. You’re acting like a sex-starved idiot. While that description might be fitting after meeting Tate, I certainly don’t have to act it.

“You’re just so fit and athletic.” Head tilted, I hold my hand out, wave it down the length of him. “I mean you look like a professional. Not that I know what a professional skier looks like,” I say. “This is my first time on a slope.” I glance toward the bunny hill, catch sight off all the children conquering it. “Those kids are going to put me to shame. Honestly, I don’t even really like heights. Couldn’t even look out the window during the plane ride.”

Okay, Summer, stop rambling.

“You’ve never skied before?”

I shake my head. “You s

eem surprised.”

“It’s just that...” His eyes narrow as they move down my body, a slow inspection that sparks something low and needy in my stomach. “You’re so fit and—”

“You can’t tell that,” I blurt out, and glance at my puffy white coat and snow pants. “I look like a big marshmallow.”

He grins, takes a small step closer, his scent once again surrounding me as blue eyes lance mine. “I love marshmallows.”

Omg, he’s flirting with me, too.

“And I would have thought you were a ripper, given your top-of-the-line gear,” he says.

“Ripper?”

“Ski slang for an accomplished skier.” He nods toward my clothes. “You’re dressed like one.”

I frown at the skis, boots, poles and clothes I’m wearing. They were in the penthouse suite waiting for me when I arrived, compliments of my generous patient. “A friend bought them for me.”

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