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There. Done. Never mind that I can barely close the button on the jeans or that pulling on the sweater has created static, making my hair look like I’ve been struck by lightning. I smooth my palms over the madly puffed-up curls, pinch my cheeks to give them a little color, and swipe on a pink lip gloss—just in case.
The doorbell rings as I’m about to put on boots instead of my fuzzy house slippers.
Crap, crap, crap.
I was hoping he wouldn’t show.
No, that’s a lie. I would’ve been disappointed if he didn’t show—but only because I want to give him a piece of my mind. Who the hell does he think he is? Getting me those outrageously expensive gifts—that bouquet must’ve also cost a pretty penny—and ordering me to go on a date with him?
I’m so worked up that I stomp over to the door and yank it open—and only then remember the pink fuzzy slippers I still have on.
“Hi,” Marcus murmurs, gazing down at me, and I forget all about my outrage and my slippers, my breath catching at the dark heat in those cool blue eyes.
Somehow, over the past two weeks, I’ve forgotten how big he is, and how striking his harshly masculine features are. In his intimidating attire of perfectly tailored suit, crisp blue shirt, subtly striped tie, and unbuttoned knee-length coat, he’s like some kind of modern-day king, exuding wealth and power—and more than his fair share of potent animal magnetism. I can literally feel my blood rushing faster through my veins, heating up every inch of my skin until the icy gusts of wind outside feel like a balmy summer breeze.
“H-hi,” I stutter out, realizing I’m staring up at him with my mouth open. “I mean… hello.” The inability to use words that had afflicted me with the text messages hasn’t gone away, I note with the small part of my brain that’s still functioning. The rest of my mind is blank. I can’t recall any of the speeches I prepared as I paced across my room, or why I even prepared them in the first place. All I can think about as I look at him is how those big warm hands had felt on my skin and how those soft masculine lips had nibbled on my ear, sending chills of pleasure down my body.
“Emma.” His voice is low and deep, so velvety it’s like a massage with a happy ending for my ears. “Kitten, are you ready?”
“Ready?” Oh God, get it together, Emma! He doesn’t mean that sexually! Unless he does, in which case the answer is yes, a thousand times yes. Maybe other human females don’t go into heat, but that’s exactly what seems to happen to me when I’m with Marcus. Already, my panties are damp, and it’s all I can do to stand still instead of leaning in and rubbing against him like a cat marking her territory.
“To go,” he clarifies, glancing down, and I follow his gaze to my slippers—which are still as pink and fuzzy as ever.
With a massive effort of will, I gather my scrambled brains. “Go where? I’m not—”
“To the Greek place we never got a chance to try the other week,” he says smoothly. “It’s really good, I promise—and not expensive in the least.”
“But—”
“It’s very casual too,” he says. “But you still might want to put on your shoes. Here, those will do.” He steps forward, and I instinctively back up, letting him into the apartment and closing the door behind him on autopilot.
Ignoring Mr. Puffs hissing at him, Marcus walks past me and picks up the boots I’d taken out of the closet. Then he returns and kneels in front of me, like an assistant at a shoe store. Clasping my ankle in one large hand, he takes off my slipper and starts fitting my sock-clad foot into the boot.
What remains of my brain short-circuits, the feel of his hard, warm fingers on my ankle as erotic as if he’d started sucking on my toes. Oh God, is that a new fantasy of mine? Because all of a sudden, I can’t think of anything I want more than for Marcus to take off my sock and press his lips to my ankle, then trail hot, wet kisses over the top of my foot before—
“Here, give me your other foot,” he murmurs, jolting me out of my depraved daydream, and I blink, a hot flush crawling up my neck as I realize that one boot is already on my foot—and that he put it there.
Feeling like a perverted Cinderella, I blurt out, “I can do that,” and bend down to intercept him as he reaches for my other foot. Except I miscalculate, and my foot comes up just as I’m lowering my head.
With a startled cry, I pitch forward—only to catch myself on Marcus’s broad shoulders. His hands immediately close around my waist, steadying me, and we end up nose to nose, so close that I can feel his warm breath on my lips and smell the faint hint of cool breeze and fresh pine—his aftershave, most likely.
