Sparking the Fire ~ Excerpt

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“Wyatt, I think you’re missing the point of the illicit affair. It’s supposed to be comprised of desperate quickies wherever we can find a flat surface. In waiting for it to be perfect, we are missing out on all the amazing, hot sex we should be having!”

He frowned at her outburst.

Must she do everything herself? She sidestepped him and opened the back door of the Camaro. “Like in here.”

“You want to do it in the Camaro?”

“I do.”

“You want to have sex in the backseat of my ’69 Camaro?”

Sheesh, guys were so weird about their stupid cars.

“Maybe we could lay down a blanket or something.”

He kissed the ever-loving stuffing out of her. “I must have been a saint in a previous life.” Switching their positions, he maneuvered his big body into the backseat and flipped on the car’s dome light. “Get out of my dreams and into my car.”

Billy Ocean? Oh boy. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she climbed in. The dimly lit interior bathed them in a sepia-tinged soft focus. She leaned close, closer, oh yeah—strong fingers arrested her incline to bearded paradise.

“What the—?” He sat up and held her at arm’s length. “What the hell are you wearing?”

She had to check. “My Cardinals shirt. I sleep in it.”

“Let’s have sex in the Camaro, Wy.” His voice sounded different, sort of . . . higher.

“Are you imitating me? Badly?”

“Knew it was too good to be true. Funny, sexy, great ass, knows cars.” He blew out an annoyed breath. “And a freakin’ Cards fan.”

She sat back in the seat, a move that displayed the butter-soft, overwashed Cards tee molding perfectly to braless breasts with puckered nipples. Puckered! She looked damn hot in this shirt, and yet the mere sight of it apparently pissed off the man who’d been looking at a sure thing until about ten seconds ago.

“Are you saying that me in this shirt is enough to give you a de-rection, Marine?”

“You could just take it off.”

“I could just go back to bed and leave you with balls as blue as a Cubbies ball cap.”

“Babe, that’s just cruel.” He reached for her hip and pulled her easily over him so she straddled his thighs. “It’s okay. I’ll just close my eyes and think of Wrigley.”

She punched him in his annoyingly resistant chest. But in the muted glow, she caught . . . there it was, that slight upturn of his lips. “You need a light on your forehead signaling when Funny Guy Fox is in.”

“Molly Cade, you could be wearing a White Sox shirt, a Yankees thong, and a Packers Cheesehead and I would still want to do you.”

She sighed. “Such a romantic.”

He slipped his hands under her skirt and coasted rough-hewn fingers along her inner thighs. Higher and higher until he reached . . . “Christ. You’re already there.”

Just the mere thought of him was enough to ready her body, but his reverence tipped her over. The scent of her arousal filled the small space.

“Wyatt, please.”

He stroked a thumb through her. Just one solitary stroke that liquefied every bone in her body.

“Kiss me, Mol,” he whispered.

She did, softly at first, her hands framing his face so she could enjoy that beard on her palms, her lips, tickling her chin. He opened up to her slowly, as was his way. There was no rushing this man. Both large thumbs rubbed through her pulsing, wet flesh while his beautiful mouth seduced her with purpose.

The slow build fooled her, because within a minute, she was a bundle of pure sensation, her need clawing, her body not her own, and his thumb pressed to that nerve-packed nub of desire and she was gone, gone, gone.

And still they kissed. Through the wave, the fall, the soft landing. Most guys—again with the comparisons!—used the kiss as preparation and abandoned it when it no longer served its use. Not Wyatt. With this man, pleasure was the journey.

“Could kiss you all night, Marine.”

He smiled against her mouth, light shining like flickering flames in his eyes. Such warmth and desire, and it was all for her.

“Then pucker up, Hollywood. By the time I’m finished with you, the neighbors are gonna need a cigarette.”

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