wonders for U.S.-Peruvian diplomacy if he flipped up her skirt and put it to her between the butter knife and the sugar cubes?
Finally, finally, the dinner was over.
After making what he hoped were the right noises to anyone who seemed to care, he excused himself and Darcy from the throng. Gripping her hand tightly in his, he led her out the door and into the back of a cab.
Where he sat.
Eyes dead ahead.
Fists clenched on his thighs.
Ordering himself not to act like the rabid dog he'd turned into sometime around the third course.
"Problem, Lieutenant?" That silk and honey voice sounded so amused in the seat beside him, he considered telling her exactly what the problem was.
She wouldn't look so smug if she knew what he wanted to do with her. To her.
"I'm at the Hotel Bolivar," he said, doing what he thought was a remarkable impression of a man in control. "Will that work for you?"
When she said nothing, he gathered all of his restraint and looked at her. And oh God, he wanted this woman.
Her smile faded. Her breath actually caught.
He knew what she saw on his face. Need, squared. Greed, cubed.
For a moment, he thought he might have scared her to death—or at least into making a fast exit out of the cab.
He must have been holding his breath, because he felt it sough out of his chest on a slow, heavy sigh when she very clearly said, "My apartment's closer."
Sweet mother of God.
She scooted forward and gave the driver her address.
And Ethan lost it. She was so slight. So slim. Her hips so sweetly curved. Her ass so round and tight.
He reached for her, drew her onto his lap, and kissed her. Hard. Hungry. From the gut.
She made a low, humming sound deep in her throat and opened her mouth for his tongue. And damn, he thought he'd come right there in his dress greens and embarrass the hell out of both of them.
"Okay," he said, his breath hitching, his hands shaking like hell as he pried her arms from around his neck and set her away.
Deep breath. Another. "Okay. Just... um. Okay. Christ. Christ, Darcy, I want you so bad I'm afraid I'm going to hurt you."
He breathed in deep through his nose, let it out through his mouth, fighting dizziness in the wake of all the blood that had rushed from his big head to his little one.
"Lieutenant?"
Just the sound of her voice did things to him. Good things. Bad things.
When he thought it was safe, he chanced a look her way.
Aw God. Her cheeks were flushed pink. Her lips were swollen from that one heavy-handed kiss. Scared. She should be good and scared.
But her eyes said she was far from it. Her eyes looked all sleepy and heavy-lidded as she lifted her hand to his mouth, slid her index finger along the seam of his lips, and in a voice that grabbed him by the balls and twisted whispered, "You're not going to hurt me."
On a strangled groan, he covered her hand with both of his, sucked her finger into his mouth, then forced himself to drag her hand away again. He cupped it in both of his and pressed it against his chest where his heart beat like crazy. "Darcy—"
"You won't hurt me." She turned her palm into his and laced their fingers together. "But if I were in your shoes, Lieutenant? I might be a little afraid of getting hurt."
It made him laugh. A weary oh my God, I can't believe I'm so far gone kind of laugh. It was the reaction she'd wanted. And it was the relief he'd needed.
He lifted her hand back to his mouth. Kissed her knuckles. "How much farther?"
"So, Rocketman... is there more where that came from?"
Ethan groaned, pushed out a chuckle, and if he'd had the strength and the breath, he would have dragged her on top of him and hugged the hell out of her. But he didn't have the strength. And he could still barely breathe.
Then there was the mortification factor. Christ, it had been all over in two deep
Finally, finally, the dinner was over.
After making what he hoped were the right noises to anyone who seemed to care, he excused himself and Darcy from the throng. Gripping her hand tightly in his, he led her out the door and into the back of a cab.
Where he sat.
Eyes dead ahead.
Fists clenched on his thighs.
Ordering himself not to act like the rabid dog he'd turned into sometime around the third course.
"Problem, Lieutenant?" That silk and honey voice sounded so amused in the seat beside him, he considered telling her exactly what the problem was.
She wouldn't look so smug if she knew what he wanted to do with her. To her.
"I'm at the Hotel Bolivar," he said, doing what he thought was a remarkable impression of a man in control. "Will that work for you?"
When she said nothing, he gathered all of his restraint and looked at her. And oh God, he wanted this woman.
Her smile faded. Her breath actually caught.
He knew what she saw on his face. Need, squared. Greed, cubed.
For a moment, he thought he might have scared her to death—or at least into making a fast exit out of the cab.
He must have been holding his breath, because he felt it sough out of his chest on a slow, heavy sigh when she very clearly said, "My apartment's closer."
Sweet mother of God.
She scooted forward and gave the driver her address.
And Ethan lost it. She was so slight. So slim. Her hips so sweetly curved. Her ass so round and tight.
He reached for her, drew her onto his lap, and kissed her. Hard. Hungry. From the gut.
She made a low, humming sound deep in her throat and opened her mouth for his tongue. And damn, he thought he'd come right there in his dress greens and embarrass the hell out of both of them.
"Okay," he said, his breath hitching, his hands shaking like hell as he pried her arms from around his neck and set her away.
Deep breath. Another. "Okay. Just... um. Okay. Christ. Christ, Darcy, I want you so bad I'm afraid I'm going to hurt you."
He breathed in deep through his nose, let it out through his mouth, fighting dizziness in the wake of all the blood that had rushed from his big head to his little one.
"Lieutenant?"
Just the sound of her voice did things to him. Good things. Bad things.
When he thought it was safe, he chanced a look her way.
Aw God. Her cheeks were flushed pink. Her lips were swollen from that one heavy-handed kiss. Scared. She should be good and scared.
But her eyes said she was far from it. Her eyes looked all sleepy and heavy-lidded as she lifted her hand to his mouth, slid her index finger along the seam of his lips, and in a voice that grabbed him by the balls and twisted whispered, "You're not going to hurt me."
On a strangled groan, he covered her hand with both of his, sucked her finger into his mouth, then forced himself to drag her hand away again. He cupped it in both of his and pressed it against his chest where his heart beat like crazy. "Darcy—"
"You won't hurt me." She turned her palm into his and laced their fingers together. "But if I were in your shoes, Lieutenant? I might be a little afraid of getting hurt."
It made him laugh. A weary oh my God, I can't believe I'm so far gone kind of laugh. It was the reaction she'd wanted. And it was the relief he'd needed.
He lifted her hand back to his mouth. Kissed her knuckles. "How much farther?"
"So, Rocketman... is there more where that came from?"
Ethan groaned, pushed out a chuckle, and if he'd had the strength and the breath, he would have dragged her on top of him and hugged the hell out of her. But he didn't have the strength. And he could still barely breathe.
Then there was the mortification factor. Christ, it had been all over in two deep
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