MELT FOR YOU, le deuxième tome de la série Slow Burn de J.T. Geissinger, sort le 15 mai prochain en VO!
A wallflower gets seduction tips from a playboy athlete—until love changes the rules.
Socially awkward Joellen Bixby has a date every Saturday—with her cat, a pint of ice cream, and fantasies of the way-too-handsome Michael Maddox. She’d give anything to win over the unattainable CEO of her firm, but how can she when she blends in so well with her cubicle? The answer may be closer than she thinks.
Cameron McGregor is a cocky, tattooed Scottish rugby captain who just moved in next door. He’s not Jo’s type—at all—but the notorious playboy is offering to teach the wallflower everything he knows about inspiring desire. Though a lot of women have rumpled Cam’s kilt, Jo is special. Far from the ugly duckling she thinks she is, in Cam’s eyes she’s sharp, funny, and effortlessly sexy. Now, thanks to him, Jo is blooming with confidence and has the man of her dreams within reach.
Unfortunately for Cam, he’s just helped to push the woman of his dreams into the arms of another man—and now he’s in the fight of his life to keep this beauty from getting away.
Voici un extrait pour patienter:
EXTRAIT / EXCERPT:
“Remember to breathe,” he whispers.
“Just kiss me already,” I whisper back, surprised by how much it sounds like a plea.
“Your eyes are still open.”
I immediately shut them.
His soft laugh sends a thrill up my spine. “If only you were that obedient all the time, lass.” He lightly nips my lower lip, a dark, delicious little promise.
My hands. What do I do with my hands? They’re flattened against his chest again, but that seems lame, so I slide them up around his neck…and discover his hair. Good lord. Thick, glossy strands of hair slide like silk between my fingers. It’s longer than any of the men’s at the office, much longer than Michael’s, past the collar of his shirt, dark and waving, exquisitely soft.
As his tongue slowly begins to probe my mouth, I tug on all that gorgeous hair, forgetting I’m not supposed to be enjoying this.
I arch against him, softening, expanding, breathing deeply through my nose as the kiss deepens and begins to burn. I wasn’t kidding when I said he was experienced. He knows exactly what to do, how to get my blood sizzling and my heart hammering and all the pornographic images of him nude and splayed out like the best Christmas gift I’ve ever received pulsing like neon signs inside my head.
My nipples tighten. There’s a new heaviness between my legs, but it’s not him, it’s me, flushed and aching, every pull of his lips sending a spike of heat to that hollow space inside me that I’m becoming acutely aware of, its muted little howls of need.
I break away to check in before I lose myself completely and choke him with my prehensile tongue. “How’m I doing?” I mumble, flushed and out of breath.
His eyes drift open. Hot and dark, they pin me in place. “Jury’s still out,” he says, his voice thick. “Need more evidence.”
His mouth. I will drown in the pleasure of his mouth. I’ll die on this sofa and Mrs. Dinwiddle will find my body, fingers and toes chewed on by the poor starving cat.
The kiss grows decadent. Sinful. I moan, a desperate sound rising from the back of my throat. It has an interesting effect on Cam.
His entire body goes stiff.
He takes my head in both hands, breaks the kiss, and turns his face away. He breathes raggedly for a few moments, his nostrils flared and his jaw like granite. With his fingers pressed into my scalp, he says roughly, “You can’t make noises like that.”
Oh God. I sound like a warthog. A donkey. A trained pig, snuffling through the underbrush in search of truffles. “Okay.”
The humiliation in my voice makes his eyes slash to mine. “It’s not bad. It’s just…distracting.”
He slightly shifts his weight, and things are clarified.
I bite my lip so hard I might have drawn blood. My heart is a hummingbird beating frantically against a cage. I whisper, “You said you wouldn’t get aroused.”
He looks at my mouth like a warlord looking over a kingdom he’s just seized. “I lied.”
A kiss again, dangerous, like standing at the edge of a cliff and looking over, shifting dirt and rocks tumbling beneath your feet. My fingers twist in his hair. His hands move my head, left or right, however he wants it, a throbbing pulse like drumbeats in my ears. I’m so turned on I feel frantic, unstable, like I might break out of my own skin.
Caterpillar becoming butterfly. Chrysalis shed, wings outstretched, wind beneath my belly. Caught on an updraft. Beating, beating, flying free.
He breaks the kiss, suddenly, shatteringly, the separation like breaking glass. Dizzy, I whimper at the loss of his mouth.
“Fuck. Joellen. Fuck.”
He’s panting, his voice a desperate rasp. He radiates heat like a furnace. Even his hands on my head are hot, burning right through my skull.
With his scent in my nose and his heat wrapped around me and his heart pounding against mine, I’m somewhere else. I’m someone else. A gypsy, casting spells. A sloe-eyed singer in a smoky jazz club. A femme fatale in a film noir, all knowing smiles and long legs and a throaty voice with an edge like a purr.
“Don’t stop,” I say in my new voice. “You taste so good.”
He stares right at me, his eyes intensely aglow. Tiger eyes. Wolf eyes. The eyes of a predator about to pounce on his meal.
He growls, “You like the way I taste?”
There’s a challenge in the question. Other than his ragged breathing, he’s so still, every muscle tensed.
I come back to myself abruptly, all at once aware of how far this little experiment has gone, how dangerously close it is to the point of no return, and the cat up on the kitchen table eating the remains of Cam’s dinner from his plate.
Oh shit. My face floods with heat.
I’m not a gypsy. I’m not a femme fatale. I’m an awkward, lonely woman sitting on the lap of the most famous athlete on the planet, making an utter fool of myself.
La série Slow Burn porte bien son nom 🙂
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