A couple of snorts, a couple of snickers and more than a few curses. Trey barely heard any of them. Ressa had ended up crushed against his chest and he was pinned to the wall. Her hip was pressed snug to his crotch and even as he tried to ease her away, her gaze shifted, lifted . . .

His cock started to pulse, throb.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

Her hand fisted in the material of his shirt as she licked the full, ripe curve of her lower lip. If he didn’t at least taste that mouth—

The elevator dinged and bodies spilled out. As the person next to them escaped the press, Ressa eased back. Dusky color rode along her cheekbones as she slid her eyes up to meet his.

Tearing his gaze away, he looked at the lights flickering above the elevator door.

It hit her floor and as she turned away, she slid her hand down, caught his.

Sweat beaded at the nape of his neck and he had one brief moment of lucidity.

Trey Barnes was a man who liked order. He liked to be in control.

But he had absolutely no idea what in the hell he was doing.

And he was absolutely fine with that.

*   *   *

Her heart was still racing.

Despite the fact that they’d been packed into that elevator like sardines in a can, for one brief moment, it had just been the two of them. Voices had faded away. The press of too many bodies and a woman’s drunken laugh. Everything faded.

The only press she’d felt was his . . . the press of his body to hers, his arm under her breasts as he steadied her, his cock against her hip, pulsing in a way that had her core tightening in response.

The only voice she’d heard had been an internal one that whispered, I need to touch him. So bad. I need . . .

Now, as she swiped her key through the card reader, her hands were sweating, almost shaking.

And the damn key card wouldn’t work.

“Figures,” she whispered, her voice hitching.

A warm hand came around, took the key. “Let me see,” he murmured, his voice way too close to her ear.

Eyes closed, she stood there, struck dumb from the want ravaging inside her. The door clicked and she opened her eyes as he came around her to turn the handle, push it open. Then he turned his head, stared at her.

Waiting. On her, she knew.

Do or die, she thought, a little desperately.

Kind of extreme, maybe. But it felt apt. Because in that moment, she knew if she didn’t take him inside . . . and then just take him—let them take each other—some little piece inside of her would feel like it had died.

She slid past him, brushing up against his body as she did so. She felt his ragged intake of air and that hot, hungry need inside trembled, swelled.

She didn’t turn on the light.

As the door clicked shut behind her, she kicked off the spike heels and then turned to look at him.

Abruptly, a line from the book Lynnette had been reading danced through her mind.

With need and want a vicious tangle . . .

Yes, this was a tangle, one that was entirely too twisted, considering how short a time she’d known him. Hours, really. Just a handful of hours when you added it all up.

None of that mattered.

She moved toward him.

He met her halfway and as his arms came around her, everything inside her breathed out a sigh of delight . . . even as the need inside her demanded for more.

*   *   *

The curls he tangled around his hand were every bit as wild, as soft, as crazy as he’d thought they’d be.

And her mouth was pure, silken sin.

Spinning her around, he pressed her to the wall and caught her hips in his hands, boosted her up. Her dress caught, stopped him from spreading her open and he snarled, shoved it up—only to stop, sanity trying to intrude.

You should pull back. Pull back now before this just goes to hell—

Pull back?

Ressa hooked one leg around his and rolled her hips.

Rolled her hips against him and his cock throbbed, pulsated behind the barrier of his jeans. Desperate, he shoved the skirt of her dress the rest of the way up and cupped the lush curve of her hips, fingers digging into the silken flesh. With a groan, she wrapped her legs around his hips and started to rock, rubbing herself up and down.

His eyes all but rolled into the back of his head.

She was already wet—he could feel her, through something silky and thin.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he braced one hand on the wall, eased back.

Ressa continued to roll her hips against his and he could hear the shuddery, shaking breaths as they escaped, felt his own echo within his chest as he looked down. He was still completely dressed. So was she—but her dress had been pushed up to her waist and a pair of panties painted a murder-red swath across her hips.

And still she moved against him, like that contact was vital.

To him, it was.

But . . .

But . . . that voice of reason demanded to be heard now. You can’t do this. You know better. You have to be in control, more in control. You have to be careful.

“Ressa.” Her name was a ragged, broken whisper.

She reached up. “I’ve got something in my bag,” she said softly. “I’m healthy. Haven’t been with anybody in two years. You’ll use a rubber, though.”

Easy, practical . . .

The voice of reason went silent, soothed.

She stroked her hand down his chest and his body leaped, all but ready to lunge and pounce and take. He kept waiting for something else—for his body to freeze up on him like it had the last time he’d tried to so much as kiss a woman.

“Trey . . .” She leaned in, pressed her mouth to his neck.

Fuck this. Trey pushed away from the wall and turned, half stumbling toward the bed.

If it all fell apart, well, he might as well enjoy it as much as he could before then.

He bumped into something on the way to her bed, swore. Did it again and then swore again, tearing his mouth away from hers only to have her catch his head and try to draw him back. Three boxes, a suitcase and a desk the size of a postage stamp turned the room into an obstacle course. Shifting his grip on her, he edged around the desk, a box—her teeth caught his ear. “You’re taking too long.”

He grunted as he reached the bed, slowly lowering her to her feet. “Sorry.” Holding her eyes, he reached down, catching the material bunched around her waist, dragging it up. “Can we do away with this?”

“Let’s.” She turned, presenting her back and sweeping her hair out of the way.

Catching the tab of the zipper, he dragged it down, watched as the material spread open. Lust slammed into him as flesh was revealed. The band of her bra, the same bright murder red she’d slicked across her lips, interrupted the smooth skin of her back. But that wasn’t the only color.

Flames.

Twining around elegant, scrolled print. It started at her nape and ran down the line of her spine.

Desperate to see more of her, he shoved the material down over her arms. It caught at her waist, bunched there and he shoved it lower until it hung over her hips. She went to wiggle out of it but he caught her waist, eyes locked on the tattoo. And despite how his cock was throbbing, despite the need that had his hands all but shaking, he found himself smiling, almost charmed.

“‘You are who you choose to be,’” he murmured, running his finger down the script, the flames that danced all around it.

“Now if you don’t recognize that quote, I think we’re gonna have to call this whole thing off, baby.”

He went to his knees, intrigued by the bit of color he could just barely make out under the material that tangled at her hips. “Please.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to her spine. “Give me some credit.”

Her breath caught as he smoothed the dress down, leaving her clad in scraps of lace and silk. It was a picture that would leave him with fantasy material for a good, long time, he mused. Then he smiled even wider, leaning in to press a kiss to the little figure tattoo at the very base of her spine. Whoever had done it had been good—the robot was no more than a few inches, but it had some of the finest detail he’d ever seen, and while he wasn’t as big into ink as some, he figured he knew talent when he saw it.