The Pegasus Marshal's Mate (U.S. Marshal Shifters 2)

“Thank you! Signature, please!”

He signed.

“Wonderful! Checkout is at eleven! Room service menus are by the phone! I hope you enjoy your stay at the Sinclair, part of the Sinclair family of hotels!”

“That,” Tiffani said in an undertone as they walked to the elevators, “was the fun kind of pretending. I should be a spy. Or, as Mary would say, I should be a spy!”

The brass elevator doors slid open.

They were the only ones there. Between the mirrored back wall and the shine of the doors, Martin was confronted by endless Tiffanis, carnival house of mirrors Tiffanis that glittered like diamonds or shone with an entrancing luster. Painted on the glass and metal, all the Tiffanis were visions of beauty.

And all of those reflections were only shadows of the gorgeous, warm woman who cast them.

And her, he could touch.

She saw him looking.

I would mind if you stopped, she’d said.

In the mirror, he could see the tumbled-down hair that had fallen loose from her bun. The loose strands looked like streaks of honey spilling down her neck.

He ran out of patience. He kissed her.

Her mouth was warm and sweet like caramel. He bent down to her and she rose up to him until they were caught in the middle, both of them depending on each other for balance. Tiffani’s hands found his shoulders like they were dancing.

The chime and shudder of the elevator reaching their floor shook them both. Tiffani pressed up against him, her head against his chest. She was so soft. He had knocked her hair clip askew.

Martin wanted her so badly that he fumbled the key card twice. Then Tiffani tried, but had no better luck.

She laced their fingers together.

“Next try works or we start undressing in the hall,” she said.

There was a soft click and the light on the lock turned green. Martin was almost disappointed.

But that feeling didn’t last more than a second. By the time the door closed behind them, he was already thinking about how her tanned skin would look against the cloud-white of the sheets. How the change in angle as she lay down would bring her amber teardrop necklace into the elegant hollow of her throat.

They kissed again. Maybe that was too polite a word for it. They were desperate for each other, with a heat he hadn’t thought possible. When the height difference became too much to grapple with, he simply picked her up and held her, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her ass cradled in his hands.

He wished he could have made love to her like that: standing, holding her up, just pushing up her skirt. Another time.

He unbuttoned her blouse, revealing an apricot silk bra with creamy lace. Luscious, but not as much as what was underneath, which was soon uncovered. He slid his tongue across one rose-colored nipple and felt it pebble underneath his touch. He moved further down to the sweet curve of her belly and kissed her navel.

He began to ease her skirt up but she shook her head. Breathless, she had to explain while panting. “No. It’s too long. I was trying to be so professional. Look at me now.”

He grazed his thumb across her belly. “You’re not on the clock.”

“What are we doing?” she said. “What is this?”

She undid a little latch at the top of her skirt and let it fall down to show a triangle of ivory underwear.

Tiffani continued, “Is this the sex we have because there was sort of a bomb and we’re so glad we’re still alive? Or do you just drive all women crazy?”

He couldn’t stand not being able to see all of her. She lifted up her hips as he slid her panties off. The curls between her legs was a crinkly light brown, the color of ash wood. He bent down and kissed her there, just on the cool skin right above where he could feel her heat and desire building.

“I’m glad we’re alive,” Martin said. “But that’s not why I’m here. And I don’t drive all women crazy.”

“That you know of,” Tiffani muttered.