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throat, banding it with faint menace that made her breath catch.
    Then his journey resumed, the backs of his fingers trailing over her throat and upward to circle her ear, then sliding into her hair. "Lucas Samuel Forrester. Age thirty-six. Six foot four, two hundred twenty-one pounds. Never married. Never wanted to be," he said, his warm breath whispering over her lips as he lowered his face to hers. "Resident of Santa Fe." His nose brushed over the tip of hers as he cruised his lips over her cheek and down her jaw.
    "New Mexico? That's—" she gasped when his mouth fastened on her throat and suckled. "That's…a long commute."
    "I have my own plane," he murmured. "And a permanent hotel suite for when I'm here for business." He nipped lightly. "Or…pleasure."
    He must be rich as seven sins.
    But she could make her own money just fine.
    And his name was too Sam. "I'm still calling you Sam."
    He chuckled against her throat. "All right." He nipped, and her whole body reacted.
    He continued his journey headed south, licking his way across her collarbone, then pressing a line of kisses to the valley between her breasts as his hand skimmed over her waist, her hip.
    "You're supposed to be jacking off on my balcony," she managed.
    He settled his teeth around her left nipple and raked them over the desperately hard peak.
    "Sam…"
    "We'll get there," he said, and opened his mouth, taking a long ice cream lick from beneath her breast and over the peak.
    Her insides clenched. She had to swallow to speak. "I can't let you get away with this."
    He buried the top of his head between her breasts and gently brushed his hair over the sensitive skin. "With what? Making love to you?" Every word was a hot kiss of breath over her midriff. "Relax. We'll get off—more than once, I assure you—and we'll have fun. Isn't that the point?"
    Then he began to kiss his way down her belly.
    Making love. No. That couldn't be what they were doing here—it could not .
    "It's only—" She squeaked as he nipped at her mound and trailed his tongue over the hairs beginning to grow out. She'd been busy. She hadn't expected to see him so soon. "I have to make an appointment to wax."
    He licked the crease between thigh and mons. "Don't. I like pubic hair just fine. Go natural, Dani. Be who you are."
    Oh god. He had no idea what that meant.
    And she was not going back. Ever. Who you are . What was that? The fatherless girl who'd taken care of her always-complaining, never-happy mother, a weak, pitiful woman who let life buffett her and her daughter around? The fifteen-year-old who'd fled to the streets to escape the system after her mother had died? Who'd lost herself in a haze of drugs and loneliness for a few miserable, lost months until she'd nearly wound up in jail?
    No. She would never go back. She wasn't that girl now, that Darlene from the trailer park who'd existed at others' whims.
    She was the person she'd created, Danielle Martin, kickass investment advisor, the woman others feared, to whose tune others marched. Her life was carefully controlled and ordered, a testament to sanity and logic.
    Except for the lost times, the ones where she sought out the release, the oblivion she'd denied herself for a long time for fear of turning out like her shiftless mother.
    "I've never seen your pubes," Sam murmured now. He cocked his head, trying to glimpse them in the lamplight. Then he grinned up at her, and his face was both young and mischievous. "Don't want me to see that you're not a natural redhead?" His slashing grin cut right through her.
    She was, but… "That's for me and my waxer to know." She found an answering smile. Somehow his lighthearted teasing lifted her out of the misery of her past again. She shoved at his shoulders. "Get out there and give me a show," she ordered.
    "In a minute. First I have to—" Swiftly he parted her thighs and dove, licking her from mons to   vagina, all in one lusty swipe. "Mmm…" he stabbed his tongue into her pussy