Page 14 of Body Shot

As I was taught, I hold up the glass to the light. Beck watches, nodding approvingly.

“Color and consistency,” I murmur. “It’s a deep amber color and seems heavy.”

“Use all your senses,” he encourages me. “That’s good.”

I take a small sniff, then swirl the glass gently and sniff again. “Spicy . . . yes, cinnamon.” I inhale once more, then taste, closing my eyes to better savor the taste. “Cinnamon and . . . and caramel.”

I open my eyes to see him watching me, his eyes hot and fixed on my mouth. I lick the taste of tequila off my bottom lip.

“You’re fascinating,” Beck says roughly.

My eyes widen. “Me? Why?”

His head moves slowly from side to side and he sips his own tequila. “You’re all analytical and serious about it, so practical and scientific. And yet . . . there’s a sensuality underneath all that. I don’t know if you even realize it.”

I blink.

“Try it again,” he urges. “Give yourself over to just the sensuality of it. The pleasure.”

Jesus, he could be talking about sex. And my pussy responds, tightening and heating and tingling.

Pleasure isn’t something I spend a lot of time on. I’m focused and driven, caught up in my endless to-do list, meetings, and my mission. I’m practical, precise, and serious. But at this moment, I feel caught up in something beautiful, a shimmery web of sensation. Beck’s eyes on me have my lower belly tightening, the low husky tone of his voice makes my toes curl, the sweet spice of the tequila tingles on my tongue, and the heat of the spirit spreads throughout my body.

“You sound like you know a lot about pleasure.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners and his white teeth flash against his dark beard. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Life isn’t just one big party. Or one big tequila tasting.”

“No?” One eyebrow lifts. “Why not?”

I don’t even know how to answer that without sounding like a repressed nerdy virgin. Which I sort of am. Okay, not a virgin, but when it comes to sexual pleasure, I’m definitely inexperienced.

That tingle low in my belly deepens. I find myself with an inexplicable feeling of longing . . . wanting something more . . . wanting pleasure. “Life is serious. And hard work,” I manage to say. “I don’t have time for fun and games.”

“That’s a shame.” Beck moves closer. My skin prickles everywhere and my nipples tighten. “Life should be fun.”

I study him, his face now so close, his eyes so deep . . . and hiding something. Behind the lazy smile and sex appeal are shadows and darkness. With an unfamiliar pang of intuition, I sense pain that he covers up with flirting and laughter.

I’m used to figuring things out with logic and reason and facts. Not a gut feeling that I can’t rely upon. But I’m having a lot of feelings at this moment, and a peculiar sense that I know more about Beck than he wants to let on.

I lift a hand and stroke my fingertips over his beard. His eyes darken. “I just wanted to know how it feels,” I murmur. “Rough or soft.”

Curiosity is another of my traits, and usually I see that as a strength. It’s what makes me ask questions and seek out answers, what’s helped me discover innovative medical solutions that have the potential to help millions of people. But sometimes curiosity can be a flaw and get me in trouble.

Beck catches my hand in his and holds it to his face. His whiskers are both coarse and silky against my skin. And then he turns his head, his thick eyelashes dropping, and his mouth finds my palm in a long kiss. Heat shimmers through my veins, gathering in my pussy, and my belly flips with lust. “What are you doing?” I whisper.

One corner of his mouth lifts as he moves it away from my hand. “You seem like an intelligent woman.”

I swallow. “I am.”

“That was a kiss, science girl. You want to analyze it?” he teases.

In my experience, teasing is usually hurtful and cruel. But the warmth in his eyes and the curve of his mouth, the way he looks at me as if he thinks it’s cute that I might want to analyze the kiss, doesn’t feel that way. It feels as if he knows me too, somehow, the way I somehow know him, and helikesthat I’m smart and analytical and curious. It’s heady, feeling that way, the way I feel when my crazy experiments result in success—a sweet euphoria coursing through my veins.

So instead of taking offense, I smile back. “I don’t want to analyze it.” My voice comes out husky. “I want you to do it again.”

His eyelids lower and slowly, deliberately, he brings my hand to his mouth and opens his lips on my palm. This time his tongue lingers when he draws away. My throat closes up and more heat rushes through my body. My mouth longs to taste him and my lips part involuntarily as we stare into each other’s eyes. The air around us crackles.

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