Her clothes felt too tight—or maybe that was her own skin. A heavy anticipation filled the cold air and she tried to tell herself it was something she’d felt often. Had acted on often. But today, with this man, it felt startlingly, shockingly different. Again he ran the pad of his finger over her pulse. She took some comfort in the fact his own, beating at his throat, was no more steady than hers. “This…what?” she asked. Something flashed in his eyes. Impatience? “I’m not sure I can put it into words without getting too graphic.” Her body let out a shiver, and honest to God, her knees wobbled. “I see.” At least her voice was steady. “Does this happen to you often?” “No. You?” Feeling as if she could dive into his eyes and happily drown? Wanting to rip her clothes off and take his hands and put them on her body, sure she would die if he didn’t hurry? “No,” she managed. “Not often.” His gaze danced over her, from her boots to her legs, her body, her helmet, beneath which her hair was contained in a scrunchie at her shoulder blades.
