It was utterly ridiculous even entertaining such a thought. Grady had never met a woman more city than Suzanne—except possibly her mother. And as much as she seemed to have taken to the whole fake rancher girlfriend role, Grady would bet his last cent she bled concrete. So even if he did suddenly want to ditch seventeen years of tightly leashed control, there was nothing that could possibly ever come from this.

But there was a little voice whispering, What happens in the blizzard stays in the blizzard, and it was lethal. Ever since they’d slept together, he’d been trying to convince himself it had been a one-off thing, but the truth was, he wanted Suzanne St. Michelle so fucking badly, he could barely see straight.

“Did you…” Her voice was a ragged whisper, breaking into the silence stretching taut as a bow between them. Her throat bobbed. “Did you get it all?”

For a second, Grady was confused as to her meaning, but then her tongue flicked out to wet her lips, and he was back at ground zero. He shook his head and whispered, “Nope.”

He wasn’t sure who made the first move; if he’d been forced to guess, he’d swear they’d both moved together, reaching for each other simultaneously, their mouths meeting in the middle, their tongues melding in an instant. Then he was pushing aside the cake pan and his hands were palming her ass, and he didn’t know if he yanked or she scrambled, but she was in his lap, straddling him, her hands pushing into his hair, rocking against him and moaning as the seam of her jeans rode the bulge behind the seam of his, and it felt so fucking great. He thought he might just come from that alone.

“Suzy,” he murmured, breaking off their kiss, his lips on her neck as he held her tight and they rutted against each other, enjoying the heat and the friction and her wanton abandon.

But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted it all.

With Suzanne still clinging to him, he rose to his knees and tipped her backward, guiding her gently down to the rug, her head and shoulders and back flat on the floor, her ass still anchored firmly on top of his thighs as he sat back on his heels.

“I want to look at you,” he said as he pushed the flats of his palms under the hem of her shirt, over her stomach, and up her ribs to her breasts, taking the shirt with him. His hands found the soft satin of her bra but didn’t linger—not yet anyway—just moved inexorably north, leaning forward slightly as he removed her shirt inch by inch until it was close enough for her to duck her head through the opening and he could pull it off her arms and toss it away.

“Yes,” he hissed.