Jule Reigh and the Jim Stone Affair by Lani Aames Page B

larger.
    “Not usually, but there’s something about you
that turns me on. I was hoping for the opportunity to meet you
and…” She paused for effect, glancing at the huge bulge beneath his
buckle. “And get to know you better.”
    She hoped her brazen manner would put him off
and make him think she was a crazed stalker or something. While men
in general might not decline an offer of a one-night stand,
international jewel thieves in particular should be more
discriminating to protect their secrets.
    His hot-cocoa eyes held amusement while his
sumptuous lips moved in for the kill. Her knees might as well have
been made of butter for all the good they did her as his mouth
slanted over hers, taking her breath away.
    She slumped forward against him as the gentle
hum of arousal that had been with her all afternoon, just touching
the surface of her awareness, abruptly combusted into a raging
frenzy of lust, consuming her to the core. She wanted to fuck this
man right here, right now, and the tiny corner of her mind where
practicality still existed wondered if the potted palms were leafy
enough to conceal them if she did.
    When at last they parted, his gasps of breath
came as rapid and ragged as her own. Could the suave and
sophisticated Stone be as turned on as she?
    “You’re the best offer I’ve had all day,” he
murmured, his lips as damp and kiss-swollen as hers felt.
    “And how many offers have you had today?”
Jealousy stabbed her in the heart at the idea that other women
regarded him with the same intensity of desire she felt. Shoving
aside the wild thought that he belonged to her alone, Jule
hoped the question would stave off the inevitable. Because, really,
she’d never go off with a strange man for a hot and sweaty quickie,
no matter how horny she was and even if he weren’t an international
jewel thief. She just didn’t do that sort of thing. Ever.
    “Three or four.” His dark eyes sparked with
humor again. “I usually lose track by this time.”
    He had no modesty and he had no shame either
because his hand slipped over her breast, his palm rubbing the peak
of her nipple. Their bodies hid the action…but the thought of
someone seeing them…watching them…made her moan.
    At the sound, he moved his hand until he
caught her throbbing point between his finger and thumb, squeezing
with precision—just hard enough to cause pleasure not pain. Another
flashflood of desire surged through her, and another helpless mewl
escaped her throat. His hips ground against hers, his rock-hard
erection massaging her intimately.
    Her body responded to the primal assault, her
hips moving with his. She raked her mons over the bulge of his cock
again and again. She wanted to stop and tried to make herself stop,
but her pelvis rode his rhythm with no heed to any common
sense.
    He cupped her shoulders with his large hands
and, with a few steps, backed her into the corner where the walls
met. The disruption caused that pesky common sense to rear its ugly
head for a moment. “Not here ,” she whispered.
    “Why not? We’re here. You want it and I want
it.”
    “But what if someone sees us?”
    “Who looks behind the potted plants?”
    He had a point. She’d eaten in restaurants
with potted plants and couldn’t remember ever really looking at the
flora before, and she’d certainly never scrutinized them closely
enough to know if any hid illicit couplings.
    Then she recalled how he’d found her. “You
did.”
    “I’m the exception, babe, not the rule.”
    She wanted to laugh. What arrogance! Looking
into his hot, naked eyes quelled the chuckle in her throat. She
believed he was exceptional, all right—the best at his chosen if
illegal profession and unequalled in bed. The first she knew to be
true through his dossier at Interpol, but the last? She was as sure
of it as if she’d already bedded him.
    “What’s wrong?” He moved in close and nuzzled
her ear. “This is why you followed me all afternoon, isn’t it?