Club Cupid by Stephanie Bond Page A

electrified her arms and legs, fingers and toes. The low desk bit into the back of her thighs, but she found the numbing pain slightly arousing. She nipped at the end of his tongue and he responded with increased intensity. Their teeth clicked together as they levered for advantage, their heads bobbing as power ebbed and flowed between them. His lips alternately softened and hardened, every few seconds shifting from gentle disclosure to blatant desire, and back. Her need for oxygen ended the kiss, leaving her gulping air. Frankie raised a hand to her tingling mouth, struggling for composure.
    Randy’s air passages seemed equally compromised, although his golden eyes remained riveted on her. He slipped his arms around her waist andemitted a low whistle of appreciation. “Only ninety-nine more to go.”
    “Randy,” she uttered, turning her head. “We shouldn’t.”
    Unwittingly she’d given him unobstructed access to her neck, which he latched on to, alternating tiny suckling kisses with a hoarse countdown. “Ninety-eight…ninety-seven…ninety-six…”
    “Randy,” she protested again, even as her hands cradled his dipping head.
    “…ninety-five…ninety-four…ninety-three…”
    She raised her chin and arched backward as his mouth traveled over the pulse jumping in her neck. “W-we shouldn’t let things g-get out of hand…”
    “…ninety-four…ninety-five…ninety-six…”
    She playfully slapped at his shoulder. “You’re counting in the wrong direction.”
    Frankie felt him grin against her neck. “And you’re supposed to be too distracted to notice.”
    She pushed him away in exasperation and crossed her arms in a literal effort to hold herself together. “Perhaps I should add conceited to your list.”
    Lifting his shoulders in a too-innocent shrug, he said, “Since the kissing booths were my idea, I figure it’s my responsibility to make sure you get your money’s worth.”
    The hunger in his eyes sent alarms screaming through her body, because she suspected he saw the same desire reflected in her baby blues. Panicked, Frankie spun to face the wall, fighting for control. Too late, she realized she faced a picturesize mirror, and Randy Tate was not someone she should have turned her back on.
    A good six inches taller, he stood behind her and caught her gaze in the reflection. With his mussed tawny hair and his sparkling gilded eyes, he reminded her of a lion circling a female he might either ravish or eat alive—or both—depending on his whim.
    He reached around and hooked his bronze fingers in the mass of red hair that had fallen forward to brush her collarbone. Frankie held her breath as he drew the tresses back over her shoulder, exposing the sensitive zone behind her ear. With a sinking heart, she realized her neck tingled in anticipation of his unbelievably talented mouth. But rather than planting a kiss, he lowered his head, making the light glint off his earring, and stroked her neck with his chin, his evening beard rasping along her skin. “So?” he muttered.
    She closed her eyes and released the pent-up breath, rolling her head to the other side as goose bumps raced along her shoulders. “So…what?” she gasped.
    He continued the stroking motion, nuzzling her hairline. “So, do you think you’re getting your money’s worth?”
    In answer, she eased back into him, wrapping her hands around his hips, pulling his hardened sex into the curve of her buttocks. He groaned and smoothed his hands inside her gaping shirt, massaging her breasts through the thin fabric of the white bikini top, budding her nipples with his thumbs. His breathing became erratic in her ear as his tongue lapped at her earlobe. “Frankie, I can’t keep my hands off you.”
    She moaned her acquiescence and opened hereyes just as he slid the two triangles of the bathing-suit top aside, exposing her paper-pale breasts. Fascinated by the sight of his brown fingers against her skin in the mirror, Frankie rubbed