Whiteout

I’d do anything to be inside you right now.

Man, this is the world’s worst workout program. The Drag Your Own Butter.

Cooking’s like making music.” She threw him a smile. “It’s the perfect storm of smell and touch and taste and even sound, you know? That sizzle in the pan, the pop of spices. The moment you turn the heat off and there, right there, the ingredients let off a warm, enveloping steam.” “I eat to survive,” he said, matter-of-factly. She opened her mouth, then shut it. Was it sad to eat for survival? That was exactly what they were doing right here and the pleasure of it was almost blinding.

He’d touched her, felt her skin, seen her pleasure, and it scared the living hell out of him. She’d burn him if she got too close. And he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

Suddenly, he understood why he couldn’t have her back then, or now. Or ever. He was a starving man and she was an oasis, a hallucination, a single sparkling drop of water in his desiccated world. And the problem with giving in, drinking that water, getting just one little taste, was that he’d know exactly what he’d been missing. And he’d never, ever be able to go back.

We’re heading out into the most dangerous place on earth with killers after us?” “Yeah.” He couldn’t help a grim smirk. “Better hit the road.

In that moment she knew, with utter certainty and complete devastation, that whatever happened in the next few days, however they got through this—or didn’t—she’d met the best man she’d ever known. Too bad they’d probably die together.

You feel a loss of control?” “Never… Never had control to begin with.

He moved in, set his chin on her shoulder, and whispered, “I can’t…” When he didn’t go on, she turned a little to the right, enough to put the tips of their noses together. “Can’t what?” “Can’t stop wanting you.

He rose. “Come here.” Like a moth to a flame, mesmerized, or hypnotized, or something. Angel went to him, giving herself up to Ford Cooper’s ephemeral net.

I thought you were a jerk.” He shook with an unexpected burst of laughter. “I know.” He squeezed her tight, trying to figure out how to keep her alive. “I know.

On the ice, in the Antarctic cold, in the middle of freaking nowhere, his tongue showed her how dirty sex could be, his body made her take it, and that dark, raspy husk of a voice broke in to turn the whole thing up a million degrees.

There was a reason he’d avoided Angel Smith. Already, she’d started seeping under his skin, making him feel things he preferred not to think about. And it felt so good it scared him.

Bastard didn’t get me.” “Good,” he whispered, arms tightening, head low, voice terrible in its intensity. “Good.” “Why do you keep hugging me?” “It’s not a hug. I’m sharing body heat. To keep you warm.” His voice rumbled against her ear. She could feel it in her bones, as comforting as a purring cat. “Oh, that’s nice.” “What?” “Talk again.” “Excuse me?” He cleared his throat, tried to shift away, probably to look down at her, but she wouldn’t let him. He felt too good. “You want me to—” “Like that.” It was the rumble of his voice that calmed her, echoing through muscle and bone. It was comfort, home.