Only for Your Touch
Lick Series #2
Available from Entangled Publishing's Scorched line
Good girls shouldn't have dirty secrets. But he's hers...
The Boston press calls her the Mob Princess. I call her trouble.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry." A firm grip circled her upper arm, preventing Corrine from stumbling backward. "Are you hurt? This is my fault. I should've been watching where I was going." The babbling accompanied a tad-too-hard pat on the shoulder. "I'm sorry," the guy who'd bumped into her and nearly sent her falling on her ass apologized again.
"It's okay, I'm fine," she assured him, cautiously touching her nose. "Really." She smiled, sidestepping his hand. Any more of his apologetic patting, and he still might send her tumbling backward.
"Wow, this is embarrassing," he grumbled, mirroring her thoughts as he dragged his fingers through his dark hair. Her smile widened. Finally, someone who looked how she felt—out of place. In his khakis and polo shirt, he appeared more country club than nightclub. "Listen, uh, can I buy you a drink?" he blurted, then winced. "Damn, that was smooth…"
She couldn't help it; she chuckled. He did seem nice, even if he didn't set off any tingles below Tara's belly button. But what the hell? It was a drink.
"You have somewhere else to be." The new, dark voice sent a cascade of shivers skipping over her skin. She shifted her gaze from her would-be suitor to the looming presence behind him. And though the statement had been directed toward the man in front of her, she shivered. But it wasn't just the flat, ominous tone that had her trembling…
Instead of sporting a braided mohawk, this man had blond hair cropped close to his head. And a severe black suit and white shirt adorned his tall, wide frame in place of a leather tunic, leggings, and a broad sword, but still… It could've been the legendary warrior from the History Channel's show Vikings who shifted forward and almost inserted himself in between her and her almost bar date. The other man's jaw unhinged, and he gaped up…and up…at the blond giant.
Jesus. She blinked, part of her concerned over how pale the smaller man became when Ragnar pinned him with a hard stare. He didn't utter a word. Just…stared. Whew. That kind of magnetism was….hot.
"Uh." The other—smaller—man coughed. "Excuse me."
"I need to speak with you," the Viking rumbled to her while flicking a dismissive, steely glance to her would-be suitor.
He didn't sound like a Viking. With that faint but melodic accent, maybe a tsar. Or a bogatyr, one of the famed warriors in old Russian legends. The slight lengthening of his vowels and softening of consonants brought to mind blinding-white, icy landscapes with a stark, primal beauty. Just like its speaker. Heat fluttered in her sex, flames licking at her flesh, her clit. Up until this moment, she hadn't believed a voice could be foreplay. But the thought of his low, deep growl in her ear, murmuring explicit, dirty details of what he wanted to do to her and how he expected her to please him had her already creeping to the ledge of the orgasmic abyss.
"Um, okay," she murmured, surprise winging though her. "But I was just going to have a drink with…"
"N-no," the other guy stammered, already edging past them. "That's fine. I'm fine. It's no problem…" Whatever else he said trailed off as he fled out of the corridor and into the crowd.
Leaving her alone with the Viking.