Blazing Midsummer Nights (Harlequin Blaze) by Leslie Kelly

level.
“You ass!”
When she launched up from the table, he reached out a hand, putting it on hers and entwining their fingers. “Stay.”
“Why should I?”
With a simple shrug, he explained, “Because you’re not really mad, and you’re having fun. Even though you’re ready to find a vase to break over my head, you like me.”
She hesitated.
“Come on,” he cajoled, “when’s the last time anybody ever gave you shit and made you laugh at yourself? I suspect you’re always serious at work, subduing the real you, wanting to stay on Dad’s good side for a change and fit into that world even though you don’t always like it. And your un-boyfriend sure didn’t look like the life of the party. So hell, Hermione, finish your beer, let your hair down and just enjoy the sunset, why don’t you?”
“Don’t call me Hermione,” she insisted, looking like she couldn’t decide whether to slap him or laugh at the entire conversation.
Then she fell silent, standing there, gazing down at him, their hands together. He saw indecision cross her face and knew she was tempted. He also knew he was right—it was a rare thing for this woman to just let herself be silly and relax. She’d made the decision to thrust the free-spirited part of herself away and focus on being the kind of daughter her father wanted.
It was shameful. As far as Xander was concerned, both her father and this Dimitri douche had a lot of explaining to do. Especially for things as simple as the fact that this amazing woman didn’t even remember how to unwind on a beautiful evening like this one.
Unable to resist, now that he knew she was technically still single, he pulled her hand closer, lifting it to his lips. He had kissed her mouth Friday night, but hadn’t had a chance to explore all that soft, fragrant, feminine skin.
And he wanted to. Badly. Her hand would do for a start.
He pressed a kiss in the fleshy part of her hand, between her thumb and index finger. Hearing her tiny sigh, he kissed again, this time flicking out his tongue to taste her. Her fingers went limp in his, and he freed them to turn her hand over. That gave him her palm to explore, and he began to do it, kissing his way to the life lines in the center.
It was the simplest of kisses, seemingly innocent, but still somehow incredibly personal. Because all he could think about as he tasted her hand was moving on to her wrist, and her arm, and her shoulder and her throat. On, and on and on. There were miles of Mimi to explore, vast, feminine spaces, and doing it out here in the sunshine sounded like his idea of heaven.
“Oh, are we having a B.Y.O.M. cookout?” a voice called, interrupting the moment.
Xander immediately dropped her hand and sat straight up. Obi-Wan was coming out of the house, accompanied by a thin, pale guy Xander had met at the party. He was a tenant on the second floor, a writer, Will…Sherman? Shaker? Something like that.
Mimi walked to them quickly, and he couldn’t tell if she was glad for the interruption or was simply embarrassed. “That sounds great,” she said. Then she looked back over her shoulder. “Every once in a while everybody raids their fridge and brings out stuff for a community cookout. Bring Your Own Meat.” She nibbled her bottom lip, as if undecided, then quickly added, “Why don’t you join us?”
It was a house event, so he probably hadn’t required the invitation. But he was glad she’d extended it anyway. Very glad. Whatever she’d felt about the things he’d said, or the way he’d kissed her hand, she was willing to keep exploring whatever was happening between them.
Something was happening between them, of that he had no doubt. He couldn’t put a name on it, and had no idea where it was going. The only thing he did know was that he and Mimi had been like water put in a pot on a warm burner. Things were heating up. When or if they would come to a boil, he honestly didn’t know.
But he sure planned to stick around to find