Moonstruck. Julie Kenner
as a few people reached for a fresh glass, then the crowd started counting down from fifteen, with Fred leading the way over the loudspeaker. Because she thought it might get her in the mood, Claire joined in, lifting her glass and sloshing a bit of champagne with each passing second until they were finally to—
“Four!” She took a sip.
“Three!” She glanced over as the crowd parted.
“Two!” She saw Joe. Joe. And he was with a date. A date! Not that she cared who he went out with—and maybe she was reverting to junior high—but she did not want him to see her there alone when he had a woman on his arm.
“One!” And Joe saw her, too.
Well, hell.
She turned away—with any luck, maybe he hadn’t really seen her after all—and smacked right up against Mr. Texas Royalty.
Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was entrepreneurial spirit. Maybe it was a big “screw-you” to Joe. Or maybe it was the devil dancing on her shoulder. Claire didn’t know. All she knew was that she looked into his clear blue eyes, put her hands on his shoulders, lifted herself up on her toes and kissed him.
SHE KISSED HIM, she thought a second later, though how her brain was functioning, Claire really didn’t know. She had actually pushed herself—and her lips—off on a man.
And not just any man, but her hunka hunka burning Texas.
And not only had she kissed him, but he’d kissed her back.
Was kissing her back, because although her mind was spinning, the kiss was going on and on, and it was delicious. It was incredible. It was six ways to wow and back again.
And if Joe was watching, well, that was even better, because if Claire knew one thing for certain, Joe had never kissed like this. Firm, yet soft in all the right places. With just a hint of tongue and the taste of champagne and chocolate and strawberries.
With a little sigh, she opened her mouth, giving him better access, which he instantly took advantage of. His tongue swept inside her mouth, as if he wanted nothing more than to taste every inch of her, and her body seemed to dissolve on a sigh, rendering her utterly boneless and totally at his mercy.
Not a problem, though, because he was so aptly holding her up. One hand at the back of her head, his fingers thrust into the wild curls of the hair she’d let hang loose. The other at the small of her back, his fingers down, the tips grazing the curve of her rear, the sensation uncommonly erotic.
He increased the pressure with his hand, urging her closer until they were hip to hip and—oh, sweet heaven—she could feel the effect she was having on him pressing hard against her. Very hard against her, and though she knew that she ought to be embarrassed, or at least ease back so they could both get a little air, she did just the opposite, curving her body close to his and feeling the welcoming pressure as his hand slid down to settle firmly on her rear and ease her even closer, even tighter against him.
Yes, yes, oh, for the love of all that is holy, yes.
She shifted, imagining his hand moving lower. Imagining his fingers tracing their way down the curve of her rear then sliding between her legs, cupping her crotch. Touching her. Teasing her. Making her come.
And, oh, my God, she could feel herself getting wet just from the very thought of his touch. What on earth would it be like if his hands actually were on her that way? If she really did have the man in her bed?
Oh, sweet heaven, yes.
Call it chemistry, call it champagne, call it the Fates playing with the hearts of mortals, but right then she couldn’t think of anything except getting him in bed, getting him inside her. The room was spinning, and he was the only thing that was steady. The only thing that she wanted.
And then, damn the whole world, he was pulling away, gently, softly, just enough to break the kiss, and the heat she saw in his eyes just about did her in. Oh, yeah. He’d go there with her.
“Happy New Year to you, too,” he said, with a crooked grin.
“It’s shaping up to be a good one.”
“I saw you,” he said, in the kind of voice that only fantasy men have, smooth like a radio star, but without the salesman quality. A voice that could murmur all night to a woman in bed. A voice that could make her come without even a single touch.
“Did you?” She was melting. She was positively, undeniably melting.
“In the bar. I saw you. You saw me, too.”
“Yes,” she said, moving a step closer, closing the distance that had opened between them when he’d broken the kiss. Kiss me. Kiss me again.
“What were you thinking when you were watching me?” He reached out, then gently pressed his hand to her waist, urging her even closer as the electricity between them snapped and popped.
She swallowed, her eyes on those lips, remembering the touch of them. The feel of them. She knew exactly—erotically—what she was thinking at the moment. The past, though…well, the past was hazy. “I—I’m having a hard time getting my brain to function.”
“Are you? Because I know what I was thinking…”
“You do?” The question came out on a breath, soft and wispy and full of unabashed longing.
“This,” he said, and then he tilted his head over her. And as the silver moon shined down upon them, he pressed his lips to hers and gave her the kiss she’d been wishing for.
2
EXQUISITE.
Ty could barely think because of the spell cast by the woman in his arms, and Ty Coleman wasn’t the kind of man who got caught up in a spell. No, the man Entertainment Weekly had labeled the “Crown Prince of the Nightclub Scene”…the man who’d left his Dallas home at the age of nineteen to make his fortune in Los Angeles…the man responsible for the five most popular nightclubs in the L.A. area, and who had hosted two After Oscars parties with beautiful actresses on his arm…that man was not a man who often found himself blown away by a woman.
This woman, though…
Something about her had caught his eye.
And it wasn’t her looks, although there was nothing lacking in that department, with her soft brown curls and doe-shaped eyes that were both soft and inquisitive, it was something else entirely. A sparkle. A pop. Not to mention the arc of electricity that had shot between them whenever he’d looked her direction.
He’d been certain that she’d felt it, too, which was why he’d risked his life to navigate the crowd as midnight approached simply to get near to her.
He’d caught his first glimpse of her when she’d been talking with her friend, and the way she stood—self-confident and straight despite obviously feeling out of place—had piqued his interest. He should have simply noted her and forgotten her. Lord knew he met and saw hundreds of women every night. But she’d compelled him enough to not only have him noticing, but to have him actually saying a silent thank you for the circumstances that had dragged his reluctant ass back to this Texas hellhole.
He hadn’t wanted to come back. Why would he? It was one hell of a lot harder to hear his parents’ constant rumbling that he’d never amount to anything from fifteen hundred miles away. Here, with them only a few miles down the highway, the sound of their discouragement was almost deafening. As if they could only see the dyslexic boy he used to be—the cocky kid who made it a point to make friends since he couldn’t make good grades. Who got in fights with the boys and compromising positions with the girls. His school counselors had labeled him a troublemaker who wouldn’t apply himself, and his parents had agreed. At least as much as they ever agreed on anything. And even when Ty moved to California and applied the hell out of himself, they still only saw the useless cutup.
And damn him all to hell for still caring.
But