her nostrils to wildly flare.
Then she caught a second scent. The barest trace of an exotic cologne, an expensive blend of green woods and spice. His scent. And the first time she’d been so aware of his individual, unique, arousing allure. She shuddered then, holding the feeling close as desire blossomed and as she stepped into the mailroom and headed for her box.
He made his way straight to his and Erin could barely concentrate on separating junk mail from bills as desperation grew. Never again would she have a more perfect chance than this one. The hour was late and they were both alone and unattached. Two healthy sexual beings lacking a single reason to say no.
Unless he didn’t want her. Didn’t find her desirable. Unless she’d imagined the earlier sparks spitting and popping in Paddington’s air.
She took a deep determined breath and slammed her mailbox door resoundingly. Then she turned, pausing at the trash bin to toss out flyers and sales papers and the postcard reminder from her gynecologist. The rest of the mail she tucked into her backpack, zipping it closed just as the second mailbox door slammed shut. Three footsteps brought him to the trash bin where he tossed the same junk mail she’d discarded.
The rhythm of her heartbeat was pure rock ’n’ roll as she lifted her chin and raised her gaze to meet his.
“Hi,” she said, her voice amazingly steady when hunger had her weak at the knees. “I’m Erin. Erin Thatcher. I decided it was time I introduced myself considering we’re about as close as neighbors can be, you living above me and all.”
His eyes were the clear sort of green of old Coke bottles, a beautiful contrast of light against lashes and brows an indisputably rich gothic black. His upper lip was narrow, his bottom lip full, giving his smile an innately sexy and boyish appeal. Nothing else about him, however, could be mistaken as belonging to anyone but a man.
His gaze that still boldly met and held hers never wavered. Neither did he flirt, or tease, or pretend to sidestep what they both so obviously wanted. Amazing how the want was so obvious. Like sex between them wasn’t even a question but was a foregone conclusion, a decision made long before this moment, a reality that neither had any say in defining.
Then, in a voice that sounded as if he rarely had reason to speak, in a voice that reminded her of his car’s powerful engine idling at a low RPM, in a timbre that held enough resonance of simmering emotion to reassure her she wasn’t out of her mind, he told her his name was, “Sebastian Gallo.”
Right before he lowered his head.
It wasn’t his kiss she found unexpected. She’d been ready for this since before her fantasies had stripped the both of them bare. What she hadn’t anticipated was the hunger he was able to restrain. She felt the tension in the barest brush of his lips to hers, in the distance he kept between them even while standing so close.
Her body came alive and the hands that had been holding the strap of her backpack moved to hold on to him. He was tall and he was solid, his biceps beneath her palms as unyielding as stone. She had to lift her chin, lean back her head, stand on the balls of her feet to reach him. And she was not a short woman.
But the way he settled his hands at her hips—his hands, heavy with warmth and confident possession, his hands that were long-fingered and broad-palmed and were the hands of her fantasy—made her feel tiny and feminine and desired. And then, as if the test was complete and time had come to explore the extent of her willing nature, his kiss deepened, grew hard and hungry and his hands pulled her body flush to his.
She knew she was going to die. Her skin burned with a fever too hot for a body to bear. Her heart thumped with an unimaginably hard rhythm and any moment she expected her ribs to crack. The pressure in her chest was that intense. But neither that pressure nor that burn had anything on
Then she caught a second scent. The barest trace of an exotic cologne, an expensive blend of green woods and spice. His scent. And the first time she’d been so aware of his individual, unique, arousing allure. She shuddered then, holding the feeling close as desire blossomed and as she stepped into the mailroom and headed for her box.
He made his way straight to his and Erin could barely concentrate on separating junk mail from bills as desperation grew. Never again would she have a more perfect chance than this one. The hour was late and they were both alone and unattached. Two healthy sexual beings lacking a single reason to say no.
Unless he didn’t want her. Didn’t find her desirable. Unless she’d imagined the earlier sparks spitting and popping in Paddington’s air.
She took a deep determined breath and slammed her mailbox door resoundingly. Then she turned, pausing at the trash bin to toss out flyers and sales papers and the postcard reminder from her gynecologist. The rest of the mail she tucked into her backpack, zipping it closed just as the second mailbox door slammed shut. Three footsteps brought him to the trash bin where he tossed the same junk mail she’d discarded.
The rhythm of her heartbeat was pure rock ’n’ roll as she lifted her chin and raised her gaze to meet his.
“Hi,” she said, her voice amazingly steady when hunger had her weak at the knees. “I’m Erin. Erin Thatcher. I decided it was time I introduced myself considering we’re about as close as neighbors can be, you living above me and all.”
His eyes were the clear sort of green of old Coke bottles, a beautiful contrast of light against lashes and brows an indisputably rich gothic black. His upper lip was narrow, his bottom lip full, giving his smile an innately sexy and boyish appeal. Nothing else about him, however, could be mistaken as belonging to anyone but a man.
His gaze that still boldly met and held hers never wavered. Neither did he flirt, or tease, or pretend to sidestep what they both so obviously wanted. Amazing how the want was so obvious. Like sex between them wasn’t even a question but was a foregone conclusion, a decision made long before this moment, a reality that neither had any say in defining.
Then, in a voice that sounded as if he rarely had reason to speak, in a voice that reminded her of his car’s powerful engine idling at a low RPM, in a timbre that held enough resonance of simmering emotion to reassure her she wasn’t out of her mind, he told her his name was, “Sebastian Gallo.”
Right before he lowered his head.
It wasn’t his kiss she found unexpected. She’d been ready for this since before her fantasies had stripped the both of them bare. What she hadn’t anticipated was the hunger he was able to restrain. She felt the tension in the barest brush of his lips to hers, in the distance he kept between them even while standing so close.
Her body came alive and the hands that had been holding the strap of her backpack moved to hold on to him. He was tall and he was solid, his biceps beneath her palms as unyielding as stone. She had to lift her chin, lean back her head, stand on the balls of her feet to reach him. And she was not a short woman.
But the way he settled his hands at her hips—his hands, heavy with warmth and confident possession, his hands that were long-fingered and broad-palmed and were the hands of her fantasy—made her feel tiny and feminine and desired. And then, as if the test was complete and time had come to explore the extent of her willing nature, his kiss deepened, grew hard and hungry and his hands pulled her body flush to his.
She knew she was going to die. Her skin burned with a fever too hot for a body to bear. Her heart thumped with an unimaginably hard rhythm and any moment she expected her ribs to crack. The pressure in her chest was that intense. But neither that pressure nor that burn had anything on
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