The Naked Detective by Vivi Andrews Page A

single detail of the kiss. She brushed her lips ever so softly over his, a fleeting whisper of a touch. His breath was warm on her lips. His stubble grazed her fingertips, the tantalizing spice of his aftershave teasing her nose. Ciara pressed a closed-mouth kiss full on his mouth and a chord struck in her soul. She placed one hand over his heart, feeling his strength through the thin cloth of his shirt. She wanted bare flesh under her fingers. She wanted to bathe in touch, skin to skin.
    Nate kept his mouth closed, his head back. He was frozen against the door, as if afraid to touch her.
    Or as if he didn’t want her touch.
    Ciara drew back. Her eyes flew wide to find him watching her, his gaze steady and concerned.
    “You don’t—” She hesitated. Crap. With her luck, he was probably gay. Just because he seemed like a big strong macho man and gaped at her naked girly bits whenever the opportunity presented itself didn’t mean he wasn’t batting for the other team. “You aren’t—” She couldn’t very well ask him what his sexual orientation was five seconds after she planted one on him.
    God, her people skills sucked. That’s what happened when you lived in a freaking bubble for a decade and learned all of your social skills from the television and internet. Had she missed some signal?
    He watched her. God, the way he watched her. It made her feel like she was edible, sweet and sinful, and he was hungry for some decadent indulgence. Would a gay man look at her like that?
    But if he wasn’t gay, what the hell was he doing cowering beside the door like she was molesting him against his will. His body was eerily still, but his eyes raced over her.
    “Are you okay?” he asked, an odd urgency running under the words.
    Was she okay ? She kissed him. He didn’t kiss her back. And now he was concerned that…what?
    “That didn’t hurt you?” His voice was rough.
    Ciara blinked, the pieces suddenly jolting into place. Of course. Mr. All-American was concerned for her well-being. His moral fortitude prevented him from enjoying a kiss if it might be hurting her. Damn moral fortitude. Why couldn’t he just take advantage of her like a normal man?
    “I’m fine,” she assured him in a rush. “Great, actually. It feels amazing.”
    “Good.”
    Before she had time to react to that guttural growl, his hands were on her arms. He hauled her forward across his lap. His mouth crashed down on hers, urging her to open for him, and a symphony exploded inside her. Ciara threw her arms around his neck and held on tight. She parted her lips and his tongue slipped between them, a whip of heat unfurling in her stomach with each flick.
    She didn’t remember kisses like this. She remembered the fumbling, groping, wide-open-mouthed attempts of her adolescence, before her curse hit. This was unlike any of those. This was skill and persuasion, seduction and heat. As a fiery concerto radiated out from her soul, a clenching warmth rose up from her toes, tingling along every nerve. Nate’s hands chased those tingles and multiplied them, tracing her curves through the thin barrier of her clothes.
    He raised his head. His eyes searched hers as they clung together, both breathing rapidly. “Ciara?”
    “More, Nate,” she whispered. “Please, touch me more.”
    He groaned and crushed her to him, instantly obeying. His mouth slanted down on hers and she fell into sensation. She wanted to explore this, to venture into every corner of her capabilities. The Magellan of desire. The Ponce de León of irrepressible need.
    “Ahem. The Borgata.”
    Ciara broke away from Nate at the cabbie’s dry cough, her face flaming. From shut-in to exhibitionist nympho in four days flat. That had to be some kind of record.
    Nate caught the cabbie’s eye and shared a smug grin. Just like a man. “How much do we owe you?” Even his voice was smug. So damned pleased with himself.
    Though she supposed she couldn’t blame him. She was feeling pretty