Under the Boardwalk (Costas Sisters 1)

But he wasn’t that teen anymore, he was a man. A man whose hurt she wanted to ease and who she desired more with each breath she took. Knowing it wasn’t wise, she reached out anyway and placed a hand on his shoulder, a safe distance away from the hair-roughened chest that interested her so.

His heated stare locked with hers and she realized there was no safe place to touch or to run. There was no way to escape from her mounting desire for this complicated man.

He leaned closer, his lips hovering near hers. Every time she inhaled, she smelled his masculine scent and her nipples puckered tighter against her stretch tee. Desire pulsed inside her, and from the fire burning in his gaze, he needed her, too.

“This is crazy,” she said softly.

He nodded in agreement. “Then walk away.”

“I can’t.” Once again it was that simple.

She didn’t know who kissed who first, but finally, blessedly, his lips were on hers, hot, devouring, demanding, and giving her exactly what she’d yearned for.

They were combustible and the fire between them flared out of control. Her hands started at his waist, slid upward, her fingers trailing over his skin and taking in every contour and sensation. His flesh was smooth to the touch, made coarser by the liberal sprinkling of hair. And everywhere she touched, his skin was aflame.

He held her head in place with one hand and all the while his tongue dipped and swirled inside her mouth, setting the pace. One she gladly matched. He was a man who obviously liked being in control, and if it made her feel this good, she didn’t mind allowing him the liberty. Not as long as she could take a few of her own, and she did, as her hands came to rest over his chest, his hard nipples spearing her palms. He let out a slow groan of intense satisfaction and she took pleasure in knowing she could affect him as easily as he did her.

His lips slid over hers, then down her neck. “You drive me insane.”

“You do the same to me.”

With shaking hands, he pulled her top high around her midriff until he cupped her breasts in his hands. He’d anticipated her need, as he fed her hunger, his warm hands plumping and kneading her aching flesh. His hands worshiped her breasts and desire pulled a straight path to her center while a rush of liquid trickled between her legs.

A pulse beat harder in her throat as waves of temptation beckoned to her. He caressed and plucked her nipples with his fingertips, each movement creating a pull of exquisite desire throughout her body. She realized she was trembling, her hips gyrating in time to his unspoken commands.

He understood what she desired and pulled her onto his lap. Though it took some adjusting, she managed to straddle his legs, her thighs bracketing his. Her skirt inched up and only a thin scrap of cotton and his denim jeans provided a barrier between mutual, aching need. As his erection pressed warm and full between her legs, a delicious heat spread through her. She tipped her head back and let out a slow moan, allowing the pleasurable sensations to infuse her body, mind, and spirit.

“Let go,” he whispered in her ear. “Let me make you come.”

She had no doubt he could. Without him ever touching her there, he had the ability to make her lose control. But that was the thought that cut into her pleasure and forced her to think instead.

Her control was the very thing that had kept her sane. She had always held herself in check, deliberately forced composure because doing so distinguished her from her family. Her more dramatic, emotionally freer, bordering-on-crazy family. Control distinguished her from her twin.

Their moment had passed and Ariana scrambled off him, pulling down her skirt as she moved. “I can’t do this.”

She’d come here to question Quinn about Zoe. Instead she’d taken one look at his distraught face, seen his pain over Sam, and fallen into his arms with no questions asked.

He met her gaze, looking as shell-shocked as she felt. But he wasn’t the one who’d made a mistake. She had. Because while she was sitting in Quinn’s hotel room, shirt and skirt hiked up, breasts bared, her precious control nearly shot to hell, her sister was missing.

And Quinn, who was masterfully taking charge and encouraging her to let go, knew where her sister was. And he refused to say.

Just wonderful, Ariana, she thought to herself.

Quinn sat in silence as Ari adjusted her clothing, pulled down and retucked her shirt. He wished he could say he was sorry, but damn it, damn him, he wasn’t. Because for the moment, he’d been able to forget.

He’d been able to put Damon, the case, Sam and her problems, and Quinn’s whole sorry life, out of his mind. No woman ever had the power to make him lose focus and forget. And he’d needed to lose himself in Ari more than he’d needed to breathe. So he wasn’t sorry.