in his heat and his smell and the sexual squall lashing her insides and scrambling her thought processes, she couldn’t have cared less.
She wanted to feel his lips on her so badly she turned her face towards him, her mouth seeking his as she clutched at his shirt, fisting it. ‘Nash,’ she whimpered as his lips brushed lightly against hers. Soft, teasing. She clutched his thigh, trying to anchor herself in the maelstrom.
Nash felt her desperate whimper right down to his toes and knew exactly how she felt. He wanted to tear her clothes off right here and now, push her back against the seat and have his way with her, audience or not.
And if he deepened the kiss that’s exactly what would happen. ‘Shh, Maggie,’ he whispered, kissing her forehead, her eyes, her cheek. ‘Nearly there.’
Maggie made a sound of protest deep in her throat. How could he be so controlled when she was practically blind with lust? His thigh felt thick and powerful beneath her hand and she massaged it convulsively, trying to claw back her breath, her sanity.
Nash clasped his hand over hers as it moved higher. God, didn’t she know he was holding on by a thread? He placed his forehead against her cheekbone, forcing himself to slow it down, to think practically for a moment while he still had the chance.
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