The last time free-lance journalist Deborah Stone invaded Marcus Turner Jr.’s privacy, it nearly cost her their relationship. If he finds her this time, she has little hope their love affair will survive. But she can’t resist a mystery, and Marcus’s presence at the annual Romance Society’s gathering falls right into that category. Does he know anything about the threat against the nominees for the famous Sue’s award? Deb is determined to get to the bottom of this story, no matter the consequences.
Marcus plans to rock the small world of Romantic Suspense, and he can’t afford having Deborah blow his cover before he’s ready to make his move. Unfortunately, he’s never been able to resist her, in or out of bed. He needs a chance to win her back before his plan backfires. But with one author dead and another in the hospital, the clock is already ticking down.
The fireworks died out. She wrapped her arms around her waist.
“No. I’m fine.” She obliged herself to move, to break the web his charm slowly trod around her. The forced grin almost hurt. “I’m famished. What about dinner?”
His blank expression morphed into a grimace. “I’m not going downstairs. Fans organized some Vampirella versus Cruella de Vil contest. It’s scary.”
Deb laughed. “Poor Marcus.” She imagined very well the horde of frenzied, intoxicated women cornering her handsome companion. He didn’t stand a chance. “Why don’t you call room service? I’ll get dressed.”
His mouth twitched. “Your clothes are probably still damp.”
“Oh.” His left hand hooked in her belt again. Deb let herself be dragged forward. “I have to keep the robe, then.”
Marcus fisted her hair. He yanked her head backward, rubbed his mouth against her. The brief contact left her breathless. “I don’t understand how I can want you that bad when you exasperate me so much.” His voice rasped with raw emotions.
Deb rose to her toes, seeking another kiss.
He complied like a starving man. His tongue pushed between her lips. When he entered her mouth, her pulse skyrocketed. Delicious shivers shook her to the core. White dots branded her lids, like the fireworks they had admired minutes—ages—ago. Deb tried to steady herself, to give back each possessive stroke, and fell short. Her skin caught fire. She danced happily through the brazier.
He finally allowed her to breathe, but she refused the respite. Her clumsy hands reached for his chest as he yanked off his shirt. One shove sent her back onto the bed. His jeans-clad knee parted her thighs while he attacked her throat. The robe blocked his way, so he straightened up again to untie her belt.
Marcus snarled as he discovered she still wore her bra yet he followed the simple cotton strap with one finger almost reverently. She yearned to return the caress, to find an anchor in the whirlpool or pull him down with her. “I want to touch—”
He lowered his head for another languorous kiss. Deb arched under him, inviting the plunder. For a second, he satisfied them both, grinding against her in return, kissing and nipping at the curve of her breast. Then the world somersaulted and spun, and she was face down in the duvet. Robe and bra disappeared, leaving her next to naked and vulnerable to his ministrations.
Sweetness replaced hunger. Feather-light kisses tickled the small of her back, caressed her spine up to her shoulder, then down again. Deb reveled in the delicious surrender, barely aware of anything but the pleasure his fingers and mouth ignited inside her. She moaned when he kissed the back of her thigh, nudging her right knee up and apart. His palm slid down her calf, to stop on the infinity symbol tattoo on her ankle.
Light-headed with lust, Deb bucked under her tormentor. He cuddled her from behind, his face buried in the crook of her shoulder. Skin met skin. Her curves crushed into taut muscles. Before she realized that he’d stripped off his clothes somehow, he buried himself inside her, then paused. “You’re perfect.”