Edward lifted a dark eyebrow. “Be gentle with me,” he said mockingly. Closing his eyes, he propped his chin on his folded arms and waited for me to touch him.

       Touch him.

      I looked down at my hands, which felt suddenly tingly. I knew how to give a professional massage. Why were my hands shaking? I didn't feel like a competent physical therapist. I felt like what he'd once called me—a frightened virgin.

      Edward St. Cyr, my boss, who'd inspired me and irritated me in equal measure, who was way out of my league and didn't see me as anything more than someone he could casually flirt with, perhaps casually sleep with and casually forget, was naked beneath my hands. And I feared if I showed a moment of weakness he might roll over and devour me.

      If he felt my hands shaking … All he had to do was turn around on the table and pull me down hard against him in a savage kiss.

      Don't think about it, I told myself fiercely.

      Flexing my fingers, I poured oil in one palm, then rubbed my hands together to warm them. Slowly, I lowered them to his skin.

      As I ran my hands down the trapezius muscles of his upper back I tried to calm the rapid beat of my heart. But as I stroked and rubbed Edward beneath my palms I felt hot as summer. I closed my eyes, trying not to imagine what it would be like if he were my lover. How it would feel to sink into the pleasure I imagined he'd give me.

      Afterward my soul might be ash, but I'd finally know the exhilaration of the fire.