Married To The Maverick Millionaire. Joss Wood

stated. “It’s taking the lemons life gives you—”

      “If you say anything about making lemonade, I might strangle you,” Quinn warned her in his super-growly, super-sexy voice.

      Cal grinned. “Hell, no! When life gives me lemons, I slice those suckers up, haul out the salt and tequila and do shots.” She stretched out her legs. “So, are we going to get married or what, Rayne?”

      He stood up and stretched, and the hem of his shirt pulled up to reveal furrows of hard stomach muscle and a hint of those long, vertical muscles over his hips that made woman say—and do—stupid things. Like taking a nip right there, heading lower to take his...

      Cal slammed her eyes shut and hauled in some much-needed air. Had she really fantasized about kissing Quinn...there? She waited for the wave of shame, but nothing happened. Well, she was still wondering how good those muscles and his masculine skin would feel under her hands, on her tongue.

      She had to get out of his bedroom. Now. Before she did something stupid like slapping her mouth on his. Her libido wasn’t gently creeping back; it was galloping in on a white stallion, naked and howling.

      Maybe getting hitched wasn’t the brightest idea she’d ever had. She should backtrack, tell Quinn that this was a crazy-bad idea, that she’d changed her mind.

      “Okay, let’s do it,” Quinn said. “Let’s get hitched.”

      Oh, damn. Too late.