The Bravo Billionaire. Christine Rimmer

      “Ten. Tomorrow morning? I don’t…it’s all so fast…” She was hedging suddenly, backing toward the door.

      Perhaps, he decided, a kiss was in order, after all.

      “Emma Lynn.”

      “What?”

      “Stand still.”

      She froze—but her mouth kept going. “I…I have to go. Really. I can’t—”

      “Soon.” He closed the space she’d put between them.

      She looked up at him, her eyes jewel-green now, soft lips slightly parted. “Uh. No. I think I should go now.”

      He bent his head, brought his mouth to a distance of one inch from hers. “Now?”

      “Now…”

      He hardly had to move at all, just that inch—and he had her mouth. She gasped, and then she stiffened.

      He remained absolutely still, mouth to mouth with her, waiting.

      Until she sighed. Her breath was sweet, as if she’d been eating apples. And the dewy-rose scent of her was all around him.

      Slowly, so as not to startle her, he took her shoulders and very gently pushed the raincoat away. It collapsed to the floor.

      She made a small, urgent sound in her throat, a word that didn’t quite take form. A protest, a plea? He couldn’t have said.

      And he didn’t care. Her mouth parted a tiny bit more. He slipped his tongue inside and pulled her body in to his.

      Chapter 7

      The kiss went on for a long, long time.

      Somewhere in the back of Emma’s mind, a voice that sounded very much like her aunt Cass scolded her roundly, telling her to stop this foolishness, to stop it right now.

      But Emma was not listening to the wise voice of her dead aunt. She was too busy kissing Jonas back, moaning and sighing, rubbing her shameless self against him, running her hands over his huge hard shoulders, along his big neck and up into his thick brown hair.

      My goodness, the man knew how to use that tongue of his. And she didn’t mean for talking, no she did not. And his hands were every bit as busy as her hands, sliding all along her rib cage, and around to her back, then cupping her bottom and yanking her in even closer to him.

      He was on her like paint. And she was loving it—loving the feel of those big hands on her skin when he pushed up the puckered lace of her shirt and caressed what he uncovered.

      Her breasts were just aching for him to hurry up and get there. And she was, well, she was getting very damp, real humid down south, everything opening and softening, hungry and ready.

      He was ready, too. She could feel him, down at the base of her belly—hard, wanting her. Just like she wanted him.

      This couldn’t be happening. With Jonas Bravo, of all people. They didn’t even like each other.

      Did they?

      She moaned. He moaned. His tongue did naughty things to her tongue and his hands, like her hands, would not be still.

      Until he grasped her shoulders.

      And, very gently, pushed her away.

      Her eyes popped open. He was holding her at arm’s length, those incredible hands of his firm on her shoulders. She stared at him. His lips looked bruised. She didn’t even want to think about what her lips must look like. They had kissed so hard and long, they’d probably injured themselves.

      “Time to go home, Emma Lynn,” he said tenderly.

      “Home,” she repeated, in the voice of a woman hypnotized.

      He smoothed her hair and tugged on the hem of her shirt, which had gotten all bunched up beneath her bra. Then he knelt and scooped up her coat. “Turn around.”

      She obeyed, still feeling as if she’d been sucked in to some kind of trance. Her body felt all quivery, and her brain felt way too slow, as if someone had filled her head with big, soft handfuls of fluffy cotton balls.

      “Give me your arm,” he said, that rough-velvet voice of his driving her crazy, making her wish she could just turn around and throw herself on him, just climb him like a tree.

      But some shred of dignity must have remained to her. She did not act on her wish. She did what he told her to do. She gave him her arm. He put it into the sleeve of her coat.

      “Now the other arm.”

      She gave him that one, too. He guided the coat up and settled it onto her shoulders.

      “There,” he said, and touched her, at the nape of her neck. She shivered. He made a low, knowing sound in his throat, and he rubbed his finger up and down along the back of her neck, causing heated little goose bumps to rise, making her shiver all over again.

      She let her head drop forward, giving him easier access, and she couldn’t stop the tiny moan that pushed its way out of her throat.

      He bent closer, laying both hands on her shoulders again. She could feel the size of him, the heat of him at her back. She held her breath. And then his lips were there, on the nape of her neck, so soft and warm and exactly what she longed for.

      She moaned again, louder than before.

      And he responded by pulling her back against his body. His arms banded around her.

      “Jonas,” she whispered, letting her head fall back, into the crook of his shoulder.

      He cupped her breasts, testing their weight and fullness. She moaned some more, in pure delight. Oh, it felt so good. So right. To want him. For him to want her.

      Then he went still.

      Emma didn’t move, either. Better not to. Better to just…wait, for a moment. Until they could let each other go. All at once, she was aware of the rain again, the low, constant sound of it, like a whisper and a roar at once, against the windowpanes.

      His hands fell away. He stepped to the side, reached for the door. She moved out of the way so that he could open it.

      Then he took her hand and wrapped her fingers around his arm. “I’ll walk you out.” He moved toward the door and she went right along with him, her body thrumming, her mind a big fuzzy wad of cotton balls.

      The hallways at Angel’s Crest were very wide, plenty of room for two people to walk side by side. He led her out to the grand foyer and opened the huge studded mahogany door, letting in the scent and sound of the rain.

      He pulled her out beneath the massive front portico with its row of stone pillars and its mosaic-tile floor, turning briefly to shut the big door, then guiding her on, to the top of the wide steps leading down to the front drive. The warm rain was a soft flood, dripping off the portico roof in silky, glittering sheets.

      “Is your car open?”

      She nodded.

      “Come on, then.”

      They ran together, down the steps. They were drenched by the time they reached her red SUV.

      He yanked open the door for her. “Get in.”

      She stepped up behind the wheel. Her key was in the pocket of her coat. She felt for it, found it, put it in the ignition.

      Jonas was still standing there, his hand on her open door, watching her. Rain ran down his face, off the end of his big, blunt nose and along the cleft in his square chin. His beautiful dress shirt clung to his body, outlining the heavy muscles in his shoulders and his arms.

      She felt weak inside, looking at him.

      And then he leaned toward her and caught her mouth again, hard and hungrily. She tasted the rain, which felt cool on his lips. He opened his mouth, sucking. She sucked right