The Merciless Travis Wilde. Sandra Marton

than everything you’d want in bed, her alter-ego purred.

      Jennie tried to step back again.

      “Well,” she said brightly, “it’s been—it’s been interesting, Mr. Wilde. Now, if you don’t mind—”

      “About those protocols,” he said, his voice low, his tone husky, “have we met them all?”

      “The what?”

      “The protocols. The ones needed before any kind of intimacy.”

      The woman named Genevieve blushed.

      Again.

      She did that, a lot.

      Travis liked it.

      Would her face and breasts turn that same shade of soft pink during sex? Would her eyes lock on his the way they were now, dark and wide but filled with passion instead confusion?

      Crazy as it was, the fate of the world seemed to hinge on learning the answer.

      “Because if we’ve met those protocols,” he said, moving closer, flattening his palms against the cab of the truck so that his arms encased her, “I’d like to take the next step.”

      “What next—what next—”

      He looked into her eyes. Looked at her lips. Gave her a second to figure out what was coming.

      “No,” she whispered.

      “Yes,” he said, and in what seemed like slow motion, he, lowered his head to hers and took her mouth.

      Her lips parted. His tongue slipped between them. Her heart banged into her throat. The taste of him, the feel of him inside her mouth …

      Ohmygod, she thought, oh—my—God!

      He groaned.

      His arms went around her.

      Hers rose and wound around his neck.

      She pressed herself against him. And gasped.

      He was hard as a rock.

      She wanted to rub against him. Wanted to move her hips against his. Wanted to—to—

      He lifted her off the ground, one arm around her waist, the other just below her backside. Her face was on a level with his; he kissed her slowly, caught her bottom lip between his teeth and sucked on her flesh, and—and—

      A dazzling jolt of pure desire shot through her, the same as it had for one amazing moment in the bar, when her fear and indignation had given way to something very, very different. Something she’d refused to admit, even to herself.

      “Wait,” she whispered, but he didn’t and she didn’t want him to wait, didn’t want anything to wait even though this wasn’t going according to plan.

      He set her down, slowly, on her feet.

      Don’t stop, she thought.

      He didn’t.

      He put his hands on her.

      On her hips, bringing her, hard, against his erection.

      On her breasts, oh, on her breasts, his thumbs dancing with tantalizing slowness over her nipples.