Only Yours

“By the time we were teenagers, we were ready to be more distinct.” She tilted her head. “What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

He said the single word with great finality. As if there would be no more discussion about family. At least not his.

While she was trying to figure out what to say next, he opened his car and took the food from her. After setting it on the passenger seat, he straightened and faced her.

“I don’t think coming to dinner tomorrow is a good idea,” he said. “I’m not the family type.”

She didn’t know very much about him. Finding out he was an only child practically doubled her knowledge pool. But sometimes she was good at guessing about people. Her gut told her Simon spent most of his life alone, even when he was around others.

“There’s no entrance exam. It’s dinner. You’ve done dinner before.”

One corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if he were going to smile. A flicker of anticipation danced through her.

“Besides,” she continued, “you need a family dinner. It will do you good. Make you less stuffy.”

“Is that how you see me?”

“Sometimes. But not in a bad way.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Because there’s a good stuffy?”

“Maybe. It can work if you’re British.”

Now he did smile. His whole face changed as the amusement turned him from merely handsome to completely irresistible. She supposed some women would be put off by his scars, but she barely noticed them.

“I don’t do a very good accent,” he admitted. “Although I have a friend who’s British.”

“You should practice the accent. Because women really love that. Not that the doctor thing isn’t working for you.”

“The doctor thing?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. There you are, a good-looking doctor. Better yet, a surgeon. You’re like catnip.”

The smile faded. He stared at her with an intensity that made her want to take a step back. She knew she’d said something wrong, but couldn’t figure out what it was. She didn’t think he was mad, exactly. But he was—

He reached for her. His large, strong hands cupped her face, his thumbs lightly caressing her cheekbones. Then he was kissing her, his mouth on hers, claiming her with the passion she remembered from their last kiss.

She was less startled this time, more ready to step closer and lose herself in the feel of his lips against hers.

The heat was familiar, as was the need that rushed from him to her. She surrendered more quickly, putting her hands on his shoulders, then tilting her head so he could deepen the kiss.

She inhaled the scent of skin and night and the faint smell of the dinner she’d brought him. He tasted of coffee and mint. Stubble lightly scraped against her skin.

She was aware of the smooth wool of his suit jacket, the breadth of his shoulders, the tension in his muscles. Then he parted his lips and his tongue swept in to claim her.

It was exactly as she remembered, she thought happily as desire flooded her. The erotic dance, the way he kissed her, as if desperate and starving. She answered stroke for stroke, letting his kiss sweep her away because getting lost had never felt so right.

He dropped his hands to her waist and pulled her hard against him. She felt the strength of his body and had a vision of them naked together. Skin on skin. She shivered, her breasts becoming more sensitive, her nipples getting tight. Heat pooled in her belly before slipping lower.

He dropped his hands to her hips. His fingertips lightly grazed the curve of her butt. Her belly came into contact with his groin and she felt his erection.

She instantly wanted to touch him. No, that wasn’t it. She wanted to be on her back, naked, ready. She wanted his mouth everywhere.

The images were so real, for a second she thought she had begged to be taken, standing there in the parking lot. Instead of being embarrassed, she wanted to grab his hands and place them on her breasts or between her legs.

She’d been kissed before, had made love before, but she’d never been so … hungry.