Her Perfect Stranger. Jill Shalvis

sorry you asked me?”

      “Are you kidding?”

      “Well then, I’m not sorry I’m here.” She lifted a hand, too, and touched his face, ran her finger over his lower lip, over his jaw so that his day-old growth of beard rasped loudly in the silent hall. When she rimmed his ear, he sucked in a harsh breath, every muscle tight and tense.

      “Are we going to stand out here all night?” she asked. “Or go in and…”

      “And?” he pressed, stepping closer and running his fingers down her neck now, delighting in the shiver that wracked her. He stroked his thumb over the pulse dancing wildly at the base of her throat.

      “And finish this,” she whispered, her eyes closing, her head falling back slightly to give him more room. “Let’s finish what we started the moment we looked into each other’s eyes. Okay?”

      “Oh yeah. It’s more than okay.” And with his body—and heart—buzzing, he put his key card in the slot.

      3

      THE ROOM SEEMED DARKER than the hallway. Dark but warm, and somehow inviting.

      Definitely their safe haven from the storm.

      Corrine stepped into the room and moved silently to the window. Pulling back the shades didn’t let more light into the room. The blurry window was streaming with rain and sleet, but this high up, with the windows sealed, the night and the storm were eerily silent. She could barely make out the city below, and it was easy to believe they were anywhere, anywhere in the world, all alone.

      He came up behind her, not touching, just…there. “I’m not married,” he said. “Or attached.” When she craned her neck and looked at him, he gave a little smile. “I know, you don’t want to talk about yourself, and you don’t want to talk about me, either, but I just wanted you to know that.”

      She had a hard time imagining this man without companionship. “You’re unattached?”

      He shrugged. “I see women. Nothing serious has come my way. Not yet, anyway.”

      She was selfishly relieved. She’d never been married, and hadn’t been attached in so long she’d almost forgotten what it was like. Oddly enough, given such a lack of romance, Corrine’s life was made up of men. But even being with men on a daily basis, she’d never been more aware of one in her life than she was right now. She felt surrounded by him, her perfect stranger, and she shivered again, though it had nothing to do with fear or intimidation or cold, everything to do with stark, demanding need.

      If that need hadn’t been so strong, so undeniable, so utterly reciprocated, she would have died of embarrassment, because Corrine Atkinson didn’t need anyone, never had. But it was strong, it was undeniable and it was most definitely reciprocated. “I’m not married or attached, either,” she said, turning toward him. “If nothing else, you deserve to know that.”

      His smile was slow and nearly stopped her heart. “Good,” he said.

      More lightning flashed, but the thunder was muted, almost as if it was happening in another time and place.

      “I love to watch a storm,” she said, suddenly nervous enough to let him in, just a little. “Especially at night.”

      “It’s different at night,” he agreed. “More intense. When you can’t see, the other senses kick in, so you feel it more.”

      Exactly. He understood.

      Which caused even more nervousness. “My mother hates this weather. It messes with her hair.” Where had that come from? Corrine never shared herself, any part, including her family. To share meant opening up, and that wasn’t her way.

      Before she could cover up that slip with a light joke, he stroked her hair. “It only makes yours all the more beautiful.”

      Uncomfortable with compliments, she lifted a hand to the long, tangled mess, which had gone wild the moment she’d stepped out of the cab.

      “I love the curls,” he said, and stroked it again.

      She felt the touch to the tips of her toes. “I usually keep it confined.” Another personal fact, damn it. Her hair was one of those things about herself that she’d change if she could, like webbed feet or short, fat fingers. “I leave it long because I can pin it back. If I cut it short I look like a mop.”

      He laughed.

      Good Lord, who’d given her tongue permission to run off with her mouth?

      “It’s so soft.” He tucked a particularly wayward curl behind her ear, his fingers tracing down along her jaw.

      She could no longer breathe.

      His hand danced down her throat to the lapels of his jacket, which he drew more tightly together.

      He thought she was cold.

      The gentleness of this man floored her, along with his size and shape and his utterly confident masculine air.

      “I can sleep on the floor,” he said quietly, and the tenderness in his voice, combined with the careful way he was touching her, nearly did her in.

      “No, I—”

      He put a hand to his chest. “I wanted you here more than I wanted my next breath, but now that you are here, I don’t want to rush you.”

      She stared at his hand, but that wasn’t what drew her eyes, not really. It was his chest, which was broad, muscled and calling for her hands.

      She tried to remember the last time she’d been drawn to a man, but couldn’t. She saw attractive men all the time, and not one of them had ever sparked an interest in her.

      This man wasn’t causing just a spark, he’d started a full-blown wildfire, and it wasn’t simply his physical beauty, though that was nothing to sneeze at. It wasn’t his smile, though that alone had been enough to set her hormones raging.

      There was just something about him, so big and tough, yet so…gentle.

      He’d probably laugh at that, or maybe get embarrassed. And yet again, maybe not; he seemed to be a man embarrassed by very little.

      “You’re not rushing me,” she finally said.

      He flashed his smile, then set his hands on her shoulders and turned her away from him again. In what started out as a light, sexy touch, he kneaded, then found the knot of tension at the base of her neck that she was rarely without these days. With a rough sound of empathy, he dug in.

      She nearly melted to the floor, unable to contain her soft moan of pleasure as his fingers unerringly zeroed in on the place she needed them most.

      “Mmm, you’re so tight. Try to relax a bit.” He smoothed the muscles all the way down her arms and out toward her fingertips, then started again at her neck. He did that, over and over, with infinite patience, until she had to grip the window-sill to keep from sliding to the floor in a boneless heap of massive gratification.

      “Better?”

      “If it gets any better,” she said, “I just might explode.”

      “Promise?” As if rendering a woman completely out of control was an everyday occurrence for him, he laughed huskily when she let out another helpless little moan.

      And it well might be for him, but not for her. Certainly not for her. When was the last time she’d had sex? She tried to remember, but his fingers were working their magic and now she could feel his chest, his thighs, brushing her back and legs, making her even weaker.

      “It’s very late,” she said.

      His fingers stilled, then he carefully stepped back. “Yes, it is. You’ll want to go to sleep.”

      She turned to him, her heart in her throat. “I think maybe this is worth being tired for.”

      He’d