Page 27 of Not Your Average Vixen
He needed more of her. And he needed it now.
Gripping her ass, he lifted her into his arms. He had a good eight to ten inches on her, but in his embrace, they were eye to eye.
“Why can’t I stop kissing you?” he whispered against her lips.
She entwined her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Because you’re under my spell. You see, Mr. Twentieth Floor, I’m not your average vixen.”
Sweet Christ, she sure as hell wasn’t!
The elevator pinged their arrival, but he didn’t move. With her flushed cheeks and lips red from his kisses, her angelic features had him mesmerized.
“No, you most certainly aren’t.” He glanced into the room. “Are you ready to leave the elevator, or would you like to stay here for a while?”
She glanced out the open doors. “Where’s the hallway?”
He surveyed the suite. “Probably on the floor below.”
She frowned, her brow crinkling into an innocent expression of confusion.
She cupped his cheek in her hand. “Where are we?”
“We’re on the twentieth floor. You pressed the button,” he deadpanned.
She ping-ponged her gaze into the spacious room, then back to him. “What’s on the twentieth floor?”
He suppressed a grin. “Not a hallway.”
The adorable crinkle to her forehead was back. “Is this whole floor your room?”
He gave a little shrug. “They call it a suite.”
“Holy moly,” she said with such awe in her voice he nearly chuckled.
When the hell was the last time he’d heard anyone utter something as hokey as holy moly?
Even Janine didn’t drop that kind of exclamation.
But, somehow, it made his one-night vixen even more alluring.
Gently, he lowered her to the ground, retrieved her clutch from the elevator floor, then took her hand.
“I want to show you something.”
They entered the darkened suite. Track lighting leading to the bedroom gave him just enough light to find what he was looking for.
He led her to the center of the room. “Close your eyes.”
She glanced up at him. “Please tell me this isn’t the part where you decide to drug me and harvest my organs.”
She was teasing, but he could hear the trace of hesitation in her voice.
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “We organ harvesters like to take off the week before Christmas. So, no, I won’t be harvesting your organs tonight. But I can’t make any promises about what I’ll be doing next week.”
She giggled. “Phew! Thank goodness for the holidays.”
“You’re a lucky lady. You should see what kidneys go for these days,” he teased.
“Soren!” she chided. And there it was again—his name coming from her lips, and the two syllables had never sounded so lovely.
