Her Perfect Stranger. Jill ShalvisЧитать онлайн книгу.
She wasn’t even winded. Neither was he, but hell, they’d come a long way up.
“And if you marvel about what good shape I’m in,” she continued, “when you’re obviously in just as good a shape, I’ll—”
“I know,” he said. “Smack me. Don’t worry, I’ll restrain myself and admire your strength later. Come on.”
They made it to his door. No one was around, and the hallway was pitch-black except for the light from his trusty flashlight.
Taking out his key card, he looked down into her face. She was watching him with an unreadable expression. Slowly he reached out and stroked a finger over her cheek, her jaw. “Are you sure?”
“Already sorry you asked me?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Well then, I’m not sorry I’m here.” She lifted a hand, too, and touched his face, ran her finger over his lower lip, over his jaw so that his day-old growth of beard rasped loudly in the silent hall. When she rimmed his ear, he sucked in a harsh breath, every muscle tight and tense.
“Are we going to stand out here all night?” she asked. “Or go in and…”
“And?” he pressed, stepping closer and running his fingers down her neck now, delighting in the shiver that wracked her. He stroked his thumb over the pulse dancing wildly at the base of her throat.
“And finish this,” she whispered, her eyes closing, her head falling back slightly to give him more room. “Let’s finish what we started the moment we looked into each other’s eyes. Okay?”
“Oh yeah. It’s more than okay.” And with his body—and heart—buzzing, he put his key card in the slot.
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