Fade To Midnight. Shannon McKenna

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      He caught her peeking. He’d been resting his forearms discreetly over his thighs, but when he caught that furtive glance, he let his hands flop outwards, palms up, so she could see that long, thick club trapped in denim against his thigh. There could be no secrets in that field of pure, naked emotion and sensation that shimmered between them.

      Well. At least there was no question about his sincerity. No faking that. The force of his desire battered against her. In a way, it was nice. Not to have to wonder if the guy was just being, well, polite.

      She licked her lips. “You can, ah, go ahead and put on your shirt,” she ventured, her voice breathless and thin. “You must be cold.”

      “I’m not cold.”

      She forced out air in a jerky sigh. “OK, let me try that one again. You should put on your shirt because I’m the one who’s getting hot.”

      He just looked at her, his throat working.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t pick up any clues about your past, or future, or anything. All I could hear was…ah…”

      “Yes,” he said. “I know what you heard.”

      Her face was bright red. “It was, um, loud.”

      “I couldn’t control it,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

      “You didn’t.” Her voice came out savagely loud. She might be flustered, staggered, blown over backwards by him—but not afraid.

      He leaned over, picked up the sweater that was pooled on the ground beside him. “I should go,” he muttered. Before I do something stupid was the corollary thought. She heared it as if he’d voiced it.

      “No, don’t!” she pleaded, panicked. She dropped the sketchbook, put one leg in front of the other until she stood in front of him. She put her hand on his hot shoulder, and did not permit it to skitter off. His hot life force pulsed into her palm. Making the hunger sharper.

      “Don’t go,” she whispered.