when they reached her wrist. He pressed his thumb against her frantic pulse. “But not you, not even after all these years. Why is that?”
“I like to keep things professional.” Unfortunately, her low, husky voice sounded anything but.
“You’re the epitome of professionalism.”
She couldn’t help it. She looked up at him through her lashes. “Pardon me, but I don’t feel that way just now.”
His coffee-brown eyes would have looked sleepy if not for the heat blazing from them. “Your job is secure no matter what. Miguel is in charge of the stable crew.”
“And you’re in charge of Miguel.”
“Miguel is in charge of Miguel,” he corrected wryly. He upended the rest of the champagne into the flute and lifted the glass again. “But if you insist on going, take this with you, at least. You, more than anyone, has earned some very fine champagne today.”
“Latitude did all the work.”
“Latitude ran for you. Miguel wanted me to sell him until you started handling him.”
Jake wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. She took the glass. Felt her head swim as she sipped again at moonbeams.
And somehow she found the toes of her scuffed boots boldly brushing the toes of Jake’s highly polished ones. She wasn’t even sure if his arm came around her waist first, or if it was her hand pressing against the solid warmth of his chest. But the crystal flute was suddenly caught between them, the glittering liquid spilling as their mouths found one another.
Champagne moonbeams were no comparison at all when it came to the taste of Jake Forrest.
It made her weak. Deliciously weak.
And there was no earthly way she could convince herself that one kiss would be enough.
Not when his splayed fingers were hard and hot against her spine through the thin knit of her shirt. Not when his other hand slid along her shoulder, cupped her cheek, fingers threading through her hair, urging her head back. Not when she felt the murmur of her name in his low, deep voice whispering along her neck before he pressed his lips against the pulse at the base of her throat.
Her mind reeled, trying to find reason. Or justification. Jake was a worldly man. He wouldn’t expect anything later that she wasn’t capable of giving.
Her fingers flexed against him, encountering champagne-damp silk and cool crystal. Then the glass fell, landing with a soft shatter when Jake lifted her off her feet until her mouth was level with his again. “Do you still want to run?”
She could feel his heart thudding hard against her. Her fingers clutched his broad shoulders. Their faces were so close, she could have counted every one of the dark, spiky eyelashes that surrounded his gleaming gaze. “Do you want me to run?”
He pressed her against the paneled wall next to Latitude’s stall and ran his hands along her thighs, drawing them up, alongside his hips. “What do you think?”
Every unyielding inch of him from shoulder on south pressed into her and she had to choke back a moan. “Mr. Forr—”
His mouth cut her off. “Jake,” he said against her.
Her hands slid behind his neck. His thick hair was cool between her fingers. “Jake,” she obliged breathlessly. She’d have said anything as long as he didn’t take away the intense pleasure of his kiss. “Jake,” she said again on a low moan of delight when his weight pressed even harder into her. Her fingers slid from his hair to curl into the smooth silk covering his back, pulling it up until she could feel the warmth of his satin-smooth flesh instead.
A deep sound rumbled from him to her and she couldn’t just hear his want…she could taste it. Then his hands clasped her rear and she was vaguely aware of glass crunching beneath his boots as he carried her into an empty stall, and she almost cried out at the loss when he settled her on her unsteady feet.
But the loss was mercifully brief. He knelt before her, dragging the hem of her shirt from her blue jeans, shoving it up as his mouth pressed, open and hot, against her abdomen. She swayed, clasping his shoulders, only to draw his hands greedily to her breasts when they hovered so close, so teasingly near.
His thumbs dragged the thin cups of her lacy bra aside, raking tauntingly over her tight nipples and needles of delight shot through her. She yanked off the strangle-hold of her twisted shirt and slid bonelessly to her knees. She felt blind to everything but the fire burning in Jake’s eyes; couldn’t look away from him as his long fingers slid away from her breasts to meet at the zipper of her jeans. “Don’t stop now,” she whispered.
A muscle flexed in his angled jaw and he pulled down the zipper. Before she could shimmy out of the jeans, though, he tipped her back and she felt the scrape of soft, fresh straw against her spine.
“Boots.” His voice was a low, husky drawl that was as arousing as his touch. He pulled off her boots and tossed them aside.
Her impatient hands reached out for him again then, but he pushed to his feet, and she could only lie there, breathless with tightening desire, as he pulled off his own boots. The silk shirt followed as he yanked it over his head, not even bothering with the buttons.
Then his hands fell to the belt at his waist. Her mouth ran dry as he slowly pulled it loose, dropping it aside, right along with every other stitch he wore.
She wasn’t exactly a virgin. She’d had two lovers before, brief though those failed relationships had been. But it was still good that she was already sprawled in the straw because the sight of all that male glory made her dizzy. Dark hair swirled across his muscular chest, narrowing to a fine line over his tight abs, just inviting her to follow its trail.
And then he was pulling at her jeans, sliding them off her hips. His lips pressed against her navel, and the heat inside her threatened to explode as she nearly bowed off the ground.
“What happened here?” His fingers smoothed over the faint remains of a long-healed scar that peeked above the edge of her pink panties.
“Stepped on by a horse.”
He trailed the line up and down. “Must’ve hurt.”
Agonizing in ways she didn’t let herself think about anymore. “You work around horses, you’re going to have some bruises somewhere along the way.”
His lips kicked up. “First time I fell off, I was five.”
“Six.” She shifted, impatient for him to get beyond the cotton panties. And he seemed to realize it because his mouth traced the thin scar as he drew the hank of fabric down her thighs with an intensity that made her feel perfectly beautiful and unscarred.
His breath whispered against her abdomen. “Are you sure?”
She couldn’t help the strangled laugh that quivered up her throat. Her thighs shifted restlessly and she reached for him. “I’m dying here,” she managed.
“Impatient.” The edge of his white teeth flashed for just a moment as he slowly moved over her. “I like that.”
She wanted
