(From the heroine Sarah's pov. Rukh has just rescued her from two would–be attackers):
The guy was big. Bigger than the other two put together. Big, silent and overwhelming, like night personified. His dark hair, thick and full, fell in unruly waves that just brushed his broad shoulders, swept away from a high forehead. Ocean–blue eyes, striking against his dark tan, stared at her full of concern.
Damn it, she was a reporter, not a romance writer. The guy could be in cahoots with the other two. Maybe it was a plot to make her think he'd rescued her and to get close. Her grip on the bag tightened. If she survived this, she'd have to give a description to the police. Something useful, an identifying mark, not a description that would make her a laughingstock.
"Are you okay?"
She managed a nod, as her gaze traveled from his tempting cupid–bow mouth, down his thick, sweaty neck. Black tattoos swirled and licked across his skin, then disappeared under the gray T–shirt, only to emerge in a wild flourish to wrap around the rippling muscles of his bicep and flow down his left arm. Tattoos could be useful for identification, but a wave of desire washed through her, leaving her dizzy. She swayed.
He took a step forward. The movement set her free and she stumbled back. "What do you want?"
"Looked like you were in trouble." He shrugged. "I just wanted to help."
"Thanks." However, journalism and suspicion went together like chocolate and peanut butter. Her gaze locked with his. "What are you doing here? I haven't seen you at the paper."
A dark flush speared across his chiseled cheekbones. He managed a sheepish grin. "I parked in the paper's lot for quick access to the trail."
His sweat–stained T–shirt and dark shorts supported his story. Her eyes traveled lower, checked out his nice–sized package, lingered over his tanned thighs. What the heck was wrong with her? She was tired and traumatized. But she knew danger could be a turn–on, a way to say thanks for being alive. Nothing more than a heightened reaction. She needed to go home.
"Thanks for coming to help." She licked her lips. "Who are you?"
"Rukh." The way he rolled his r's set off an answering purr inside her.
"I'm Sarah. Sarah Jasmine White," she said, extending her hand.
He gave a quick nod as he extended his. Their fingers met, his hand engulfed hers. A dizzying jolt of electricity surged through her and hot unadulterated need exploded deep within her gut. Sarah's breath rushed out as she pulled her hand from his and stepped forward. She reached up, let her fingers slide into his hair, and pulled his dark, scowling face down as she kissed him.
He stood rigid and frozen in her arms. His hot breath caressed her cheeks. Her wanton tongue traced over his lips. A soft moan escaped him, leaving behind a half–opened mouth and ragged breath.
Sarah slipped her tongue in, and tasted warm, dark chocolate.
She winced as he grasped a fistful of her curls and kissed her back. His tongue, lips and teeth worked her. Angry, demanding and hungry. As the kiss grew, everything physical between them—flesh, muscles, bones—seemed to evaporate. Until his taste invaded every pore.
© 2003-2026