"We'll make her happy. Trust me."
Charity smiled, her face pressed against his chest, tears still trembling in her eyes. "The thing that terrifies me most is, once she gets here, I'm going to have to cook. Real meals." She tried to laugh, but the sound was choked in her throat.
Ross felt shaken. All these years of hip encounters with sophisticated women were swept away. Something about Charity Ames brought out raw emotion in him, brought him back to a primal level where he wanted to flex his muscles and growl. Her body was so sweet in the wispy cloth.
His hand slid down from her hair, cupped her shoulder, then found her breast, and as his fingers curled about the lovely curve, he felt something twist inside him, something catch at his breath.
"Don't touch me," she whispered, though she didn't pull away.
"Then don't be so touchable," he whispered back.
But reluctantly he drew his hand back. She turned her head and looked up at him. Her dark eyes, wide with wonder, were shadowed by strands of wild hair that fell down from her forehead. Like a startled deer peering out through a bed of forest ferns, he thought a bit irrationally. Her red lips were slightly open, as though she were about to warn him again, but no words came.
He felt a surge of desire so strong, it shook him hard. He had to get back, get away from her, before he did something he would regret-and have to pay a very steep emotional price for.
"Charity," he said warningly, using his hands to set her a bit away. He'd meant to go on, to speak sternly, to build a quick wall of formality between them, but he never got the chance.
She turned to look at him again, going to her knees. Her eyes were as mysteriously dark as a midnight sky. Bracing herself with one hand on the couch, the other on the edge of the coffee table, she leaned toward him.
His stern speech died in his throat as her mouth found his. Only their lips touched, but heat poured into him. She was smooth as butter, sweeter than the wine they'd been drinking, and when her tongue flickered against his lips, he groaned, moving involuntarily, aching with the need to take her body with his own.
But something held him back. This was her kiss. Just her mouth touched his. Then as she leaned closer, the tips of her breasts touched his chest. Her lips parted and he sank into her mouth, arching to press more firmly against her breasts, clutching handfuls of carpet and brocade to keep from using his hands in a way that might frighten her.