Page 73 of The Encore Effect

The gleam in her eye went straight to his cock. With a brush of her fingertips, she pulled aside the collar of his shirt and pressed her lips to his throat, sucking and biting on the skin there.

He laughed. “Hate to break it to you, baby. Having your mark on me isn’t any kind of hardship. I’m already covered in your marks.”

She pulled away with a wet smack of her lips and smoothed her finger over the spot where, he had no doubt, a purple hickey would be rising to the surface within minutes. “What do you mean?”

He debated leaving it, kissing her until she forgot about the offhand remark, but they were trying something different this time—actually talking, telling each other the things that were on their minds. Complete honesty. It was terrifying and exhilarating and he never wanted anything less ever again.

He took her wrist in one hand, pressed her palm to the roses on this throat. “In Restless Hearts, when Brent apologizes to Kathy, he plants a rose garden for her, fills her fucking yard with more roses than she can count.”

Her brows drew together, a crease forming between them. He wanted to kiss it away, but this was more important. He reached between his shoulder blades and pulled off his shirt, moved her hand to his bare bicep, to the cluster of purple flowers. “Saffron flowers,” he said, “for the heroine in Incendiary.” Still lower, to the lavender sprigs and monarch butterflies. “For the botanical garden where Michael and Janie get engaged. Dahlias for the one where they go to Mexico. Orchids for the one where her cat tries to eat her wedding bouquet. Pansies for the one that’s kind of like Alice in Wonderland.”

“You tattooed my books on your body?” she whispered, her fingertips hovering over each colorful bloom.

“You gave us so many happily ever afters. I wanted to carry them with me. Carry you with me.”

She slid her fingers over his skin, raising goosebumps in their wake at the too-gentle touch. “All this time… Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

“I better be careful what I write in my next book. You might end up with a weed on your arm,” she said, chuckling as she blinked back tears.

He wiped away the moisture with his thumbs. “Bring it on, love. Dandelions and crab grass it is.”

“Since when do you know so much about flowers?”

He shrugged. “Don’t really. Just know you.”

She kissed him then, slow and deep. He’d ink a thousand more flowers on his skin, tattoo her name across his shoulder blades, if it meant he could keep kissing her like this.

She murmured against his lips, “Do you remember that time in Detroit?”

“Of course, I fucking remember,” he said, his voice low with desire. He backed her up against the wall of the small conference room and pressed his thigh against her the way he knew she liked. “You looking for an encore?”

She rolled her hips against the thigh between her legs and bit her lip as she glanced at her watch. “You have to be back on set in twenty-three minutes.”

He captured the wrist with her watch on it and pressed it to the wall above her head. “Plenty of time.”

He kissed her hard, his fingers intertwining with hers where they were pressed against the wall as his other hand slid into her hair and angled her lips towards him. He would never get enough of this woman, not if he had a hundred years to love her. Because he did love her. Always had. Always would. And if it took a fucking awful song and an arm full of tattoos to make her understand that, then fine, but he’d spend the rest of his life proving it to her.

He dropped his hold on her and hooked the back of her thighs with his hands, tugging her up, but he stumbled back, his knee screaming in protest at the added weight. He cursed under his breath, and made to try again, but she stopped him with a palm on his cheek, turning his face towards her. “It doesn’t have to be exactly like Detroit,” she said.

“My knee—”

“I know.” She kissed him until the creases in his face softened, until he forgot about his stupid bum knee and lost himself in the movement of her mouth over his. “Where do you want me?” she whispered against his lips.

He glanced around the room and tilted his head towards the conference table in the middle. “On the table.” She grinned and stepped around him, moving towards the table. He landed a sharp smack on her ass, directly on top of one of his flour handprints. “Lose the clothes.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him as she smoothly stepped out of her heels and shed her shirt, tossing it back over her shoulder at him. Her bra followed. She shimmied out of her jeans, leaving them in a puddle on the floor, then stepped out of her panties, tossing those, too, in his direction. He caught the scrap of cotton and lace and pressed it to his nose, inhaling the sweet scent of her, before tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans.

He stalked across the room towards her, catching her around the waist and helping her up onto the table, his hands roving over her as he kissed her again. When he dropped his hands to his belt, she shoved them away, taking over and methodically unbuckling, unzipping, all the while holding his gaze. His cock pushed through the open placket of his jeans, and she wrapped her hand around it, pumping over him in long, slow strokes as they looked into each other’s eyes.

He caught her around the throat, not applying any pressure, just enjoying the feel of her pulse beneath his fingers. “Lay back, Luna. Let me look at you.”

She lay back on the table, her legs dangling off the edge, and raised her hands over her head. The total surrender of it punched the air from his lungs as he traced his fingertips up her thigh, over her hip, the dip of her waist, to palm her breast. She sighed happily, but her eyes snagged on the clock on the wall. “Nineteen minutes,” she whispered.

The corner of his lip kicked up. “Time me.” He dropped to his knees and lifted her legs over his shoulders, licking into her pussy with the fast, hard strokes he knew she liked. She squirmed against his mouth and he used one hand looped around her thigh to hold her tight to him, slowly stroking himself with the other. How had he gone so many years without the taste of her on his tongue? How had he survived without the breathy moans of her pleasure?

Her hand twisted in his hair, tugging hard enough to send sparks skipping across his scalp as she rocked against his tongue. She groaned his name, a warning, a plea, and he redoubled his efforts, teeth and tongue and lips, his only mission to make her come, to suck every last drop of sweetness from her, and then do it again for as long as they both would live.