Not with him
this close."
"Then when, Greta? When?"
This had been a mistake. She had to get away. "Tomorrow," she
said, pulling away from him. "Tomorrow, Jean-Pierre." She tugged
at her dress, putting some more distance between them as she
rearranged herself. Her expression was final, forbidding. She
wanted to remember him just like this, standing before her with
his arms at his sides, his bright white teeth and eyes, the
silvery sharp edges of his muscled chest.
"Where?" he asked, taking her by the elbows.
"Matthew is going to New York. I'll call you." Afraid that the
gentle yet firm and alluring touch of his powerful hands would
stall her, she forced herself to pull away.
He handed her her jacket, and followed her into the light of the
living room. She opened the door, turned around, and slipped on
her jacket, zipping it firmly.
He clasped one hand on the door's edge. With the other he gripped
her wrist and pulled her close. She gasped. He kissed her long
and deeply. The cold night air chilled her back, while the heat
of his mouth warmed her insides. She drew away with a frustrated
moan.
He raised her good hand to his lips and brushed it lightly. The
stubble of his beard on the silken material caused a sound that
had an extraordinary effect on her lower regions. She pressed her
upper thighs together.
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