Working With Heat Read Online Free Page A

it gave another human being, the ceaseless grind of it.
    His hand slid from her jaw, down her shoulder, to clasp hers to lead her up the stairs. Unwilling to let go, he fumbled with his keys one-handed until he unlocked the big black door leading to his flat. Once he had them inside, he backed her into the door. Milla dropped her purse and phone and linked her now free hand with his. Charlie lifted them and pinned the backs of her hands to the door on either side of her head. She arched against him, soft and strong, giving him every reason to use his hips to push her hard against the door, channeling everything he had into the kiss. She angled her head and licked the upper bow of his lip, a maddening, teasing promise that was so like Milla. All surface, until you dove in and discovered the depths.
    His beard, now scratchy-soft from a string of days and nights at the hot shop, rasped against her chin and cheeks, the sound audible in the silence of his flat, and incredibly sexy. She writhed between him and the door, tugging first one wrist free, then the second. Reluctant to let her go completely, he rested his weight on his forearms on either side of her head. She ran her hands through the fine thick hair until her fingers met at his nape. He sank into the touch while she brushed her thumbs over his jaw.
    “I can shave,” he offered. Her chin was already pink. He usually forgot anything more than the basics of hygiene when he was in the middle of creating a piece, remembering when he startled himself in the mirror with his wild-man growth, and then he’d trim it down and start all over again. It was a good sign. During the weeks when all he made were the curving, swirling glass ornaments he sold regularly, he always remembered to shave.
    “Please don’t,” she said. She trailed her fingers down his throat to the first button on his shirt, and unfastened it, spreading the fabric and placing her open mouth against the hollow at the base of his throat.
    This time his hands tightened in her hair, pulling just enough to make her gasp and rub into his hand. He forced his hands to relax, forced his mind to stop cataloging all the ways their touches turned possessive. Milla was like molten silica and small concentrations of gold blending together to produce the rubino oro or cranberry glass he favored. Tart, sweet and a deep color he couldn’t stop looking at. She wore a halter dress with a plunging neckline that tied behind her neck, baring her cleavage and her shoulders, a very ‘50s look she wore with combat boots on the weekends. That was Milla in a nutshell—pretty as a pinup and taking no shit.
    She nuzzled into his shirt and nipped at his collarbone, and his brain shut down when a wave of lust crashed over him. He reached for the bow securing the top of her dress, untied it and dragged the backs of his hands over her collarbones, then her breasts as he let the fabric drop. Then he pulled her hair forward, so the blunt-cut ends just brushed the tops of her breasts.
    She peered at him from under her heavy fringe and pushed his shirt off his shoulders. Her fingers smoothed back up his abdomen, pausing at his nipples, then sweeping down his arms to lift his hands to her breasts. Her tight nipples pressed against his palms as he cupped the soft, pale flesh. She traced the collection of scars and burns flecked over his hands until he pinched her nipples and bent to kiss her again. Her mouth was soft, open under his while she worked at his belt and zipper.
    “Take me to bed,” she murmured against his mouth.
    “Absolutely,” he said, and wrapped one arm around her waist, hoisting her right off her feet. She giggled, then whooped when he dropped her on the bed. His jeans sagged low on his hips when he went to his heels to slip off her shoes. Braced on her elbows, she watched him, completely unself-conscious about being half-naked with her skirt rucked up around her thighs.
    He squeezed each foot and watched her sigh with