He grinned. “I don’t know.”

“Mmmm,” I said. “Bet I could tell.” As he laced his hands to cradle me about the hips, I undid the top button of his shirt. The angle was awkward, and I shifted to straddle his lap, my knees to either side of him. His hands moved to hold me a trifle lower, and arching my eyebrows at our new position, I leaned closer. My fingers went behind his neck and I nuzzled aside his collar to set my lips against the scar, leaving it with an audible pop.

Nick took a noisy breath, shifting under me into more of a slouch so he wouldn’t have to hold me from falling. “That’s not it,” he said. His hand went to my back, tracing a trail down my spine, bumping as he found the waistband of my sweats.

“Okay,” I murmured as his fingers tugged the hem of my sweatshirt. He reached up under it, his fingertips making a long tingle across my skin. “I know it isn’t this one.” Bending over him, I let my hair fall about his chest as I flicked my tongue against first one then the second puncture mark I had given him when I’d been a mink and thought he was a rat trying to kill me. He said nothing, and I carefully worried the three-month-old scar with gentle teeth.

“No,” he said, his voice suddenly strained. “You gave me those.”

“That’s right,” I breathed, my lips grazing his neck as I steadily worked my way to his ear with little hop-kisses. “Hmmm …” I breathed. “I guess I’ll have to do some investigating. You are aware, Mr. Sparagmos, that I am professionally trained in the field of investigation?”

He said nothing, his free hand making a delicious sensation as he traced a path along the small of my back, testing.

I pulled back, and his hands followed the curves of my waist under my sweatshirt with an increasing pressure. I was glad it was near dark. So still and warm. An eager anticipation was in his gaze, and leaning forward to brush the tips of my hair over his face, I whispered, “Close your eyes.”

His entire body shifted as he sighed, doing as I asked.

Nick’s touch became more insistent, and I settled my forehead into the crook between his neck and shoulder. Eyes closed, I felt for the buttons on his shirt, enjoying the rising feeling of expectation as each one gave way. I struggled with the last, tugging his shirt out from his jeans.

His hands fell from me and he twisted to pull his shirt free. I tilted my head and gently bit his earlobe. “Don’t you dare help,” I whispered, his lobe still between my teeth. I shivered as he resumed his touch, his hands warm against my back. All the buttons were undone, and I ran my lips across the faint notches rimming his ear.

With a quick motion he reached up, pulling my face to his. His lips were demanding. A soft sound urged me to respond. Had it been him or me? Don’t know. Don’t care. One hand was buried deep in my hair, holding me to him as his lips and tongue explored. His motions grew aggressive, and I pushed him back into the chair, liking his rough touch. He hit the slats with a thump, pulling me down with him.