Fur Ball Fever

Chapter 21

The sun was riding high when Nick flexed his fingers and pushed away from the computer. Unable to sleep, he'd showered, tossed on a clean tee and jeans, and tried to forget he'd experienced the most sensual, mind-blowing, and downright playful night of sex in his entire life with the most unsuitable woman in the world. To take his mind off his misgivings, he'd spent the next five hours in his office browsing databases. Things were falling into place. Soon, very soon, he would find that key puzzle piece.

Then he remembered he'd made Gracie his partner, and groaned aloud. They were officially joined at the hip until all risk of danger had passed and Oliver was behind bars.

Reminded of Gracie, he glanced at his watch and stiffened. She never slept this late. Maybe she'd come to her senses and flown the coop without saying goodbye. The brief flutter of panic subsided when he registered the appetizing aromas tickling his nostrils.

He sniffed the air. Bacon? He sniffed again. Coffee. Hot, strong, and black. A rich bouquet of toasted bagel joined the symphony. Feeling needy, conflicted, and foolish, he slumped in his chair. She was cooking breakfast.

This was all wrong. Hell, Gracie was all wrong. No way was he ready for another romantic go-around with a lunatic thrill-seeker who was incapable of common sense. He couldn't afford emotional involvement. But in spite of his resolve, his mind drifted back to last night's begging contest. A satisfied grin creased his face.

He moved toward the kitchen and stopped in the doorframe to admire the view. With the thick mass of black curls tumbling around flushed cheeks, Gracie looked like what she was—a gorgeous woman who'd had wild jungle sex all night. She stood at the stove, pushing bacon around in one pan, frying eggs in another. One of his tees mostly hid the baggy white boxers sprinkled with red hearts—her Valentine's Day gift to him—but nothing could disguise the lush curves underneath.

She'd never looked sexier, he thought, staring at the silky, tanned legs. He came up behind, wrapped his arms around her waist. She smelled of soap and woman.

To his satisfaction, she dropped the spatula and caught her breath before giving an approving hum. "Nothing beats a frisky man in the morning, though I believe it's closer to noon."

A quick nibble on her neck had her arching backwards and pressing a spectacular ass against his growing hard-on. He reached around her body and cupped one breast, imagining the pink-tipped fullness under the thin cotton.

"Glory be," he breathed, inhaling her fresh, womanly fragrance. "If I don't get myself under control, I'll take you right here, right now, against the counter."

She made a quick twist in his arms to face him. Her eyes were so blue they scorched. "Better not. Sam rolled in a couple of hours ago. We introduced ourselves, had a nice long chat, and now he's showering." She gave him an impish look. "Permission to suggest a rain check before locking lips. Sir." At his nod, she took his face in both hands and pressed her lips to his, deepening the kiss until he feared he'd explode.

In retaliation, he slid his hand inside the shirt. Her breast, warm, smooth, and firm, filled his palm. He stroked the nipple with his thumb and forefinger, knowing the friction would drive her wild. He imagined the slickness of his tongue sliding over the sensitive peak. Her tongue darted, lingered, twined. All the blood drained from his head. With a groan he slid his other hand down her back and under the baggy boxers to squeeze the satiny flesh.

He had the shorts halfway down when she squeaked and pushed his chest. "Have you lost your mind?"

He held her firm in order to trace a finger down the cleft between her buttocks. "That's cold. So cold."