“You.”
“What?” It takes longer than it should for my brain to process the remark, because when I look back at him, Michael can’t seem to fight the grin pulling at his lips. I return the look with a playful shove from my foot. “Presumptuous, are we?”
He all-out smiles. “No.”
“So, you’re saying youdon’twant to kiss me?”
“No.” Michael punctuates this with his own gaze fixed on my mouth. “What about you?”
I have to mull it over for a moment before finally admitting, “I don’t really have one.”
Sure, I’ve had somegoodkisses, but they weren’t anything to write home about. And the two I loved were ruined by hindsight.
It’s kind of sad, actually.
And because my mental filter has abandoned me, I even blurt that out as well.
Something in Michael’s expression changes. For a second, I think he’s going to call bullshit on me, but the curve of his lips turns into something more mischievous. “What would a guy have to do to give you the perfect kiss?”
“Catch me by surprise, probably.” It was the one thing that stuck out like a sore thumb when comparing my later-ruined kiss to the others. Everybody else had announced their intentions or asked permission to kiss me, which is always fine, except they all handled it awkwardly. That long, uncomfortable beat as I waited for them to follow through just took the steam out of it.
When I admit as much, Michael shakes his head, that silken voice only lowering further. “Then they didn’t know what the fuck they were doing.” His fingers glide up my calf, slow andsteady, until they reach my knee, slipping behind it to brush featherlight strokes. “It’s the anticipation that can make it so damn satisfying. ‘Will they?’ ‘Won’t they?’ ‘How?’ ‘When?’”
Goosebumps rise despite the humid air clinging to my skin, and I can’t help but bite my bottom lip at the ache that’s suddenly building just a little north of his hand.
To my dismay and disappointment, his movements slow until stopping altogether at the base of my thighs. “Your turn to ask a question.”
Huh?
It takes a painfully long moment for my brain to comprehend what he’s saying, and the sheer frustration that he isn’t going to make good on his insinuation has me glowering at him. Well, that and the fact he’s smirking, clearly sensing said frustration.
Tease.
I school my expression into something more casual, refusing to give him the satisfaction.That’s right, asshat. Your touch has zero effect on me.I feign an air of indifference, stretching languidly across the bench. The act sends my spine arching, pushing my breasts up and out as I raise my arms over my head. As far as he’s concerned, I’m as cool as a cucumber and nimble as a cat. Never mind that my stretching has inadvertently left his hand sliding higher up my thigh. Still, I close my eyes and sigh, like it’s no big deal that a hot stranger has his hand skimming mere inches from you-know-where. As casually as I can manage, I ask, “Favorite curse word?”
To my surprise (and further disappointment), Michael lifts my legs off his lap just high enough that he can stand up, forcing me to lay my calves back down on the bench, its stone still warm from his body. “Easy.Fuck.”
I crack open an eye to look at him, and sweet mother of God, no man has the right to look so utterly gorgeous and predatory all at once. His expression is enough to sear my skin as thoseeyes roam over every inch of me. I try to sound unaffected, but my voice comes out far too breathy. “Why?”
“It offers the most variety. ‘Fuck off,’ ‘fucking amazing,’ and ‘fuck, that feels good.’” His pitch changes with each sentiment, going from angry to delighted to a panty-dropping growl that has my thighs wanting to clench. I find that impossible, however, since he emphasizes the last point by positioning one of his knees right between my thighs. Michael damn near prowls over my body as he braces himself with his hands on either side of me. His breath dances over my lips, his face mere inches from mine. “Allow me to prove you wrong.”
The words are barely more than a whisper, and my eyes close on instinct, awaiting the feel of more than his breath…
But it doesn’t come. It takes a moment to process his comment, not to mention what he’s doing.
The bastard.
I open my eyes again to find that cocky grin looming above me so close I could eliminate the distance between us with no more than an arch of my neck. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. If he wants to make a point at my expense, the man better be ready to deliver.
And he’s more than willing.
He parts his lips, but they aren’t what connect with mine. His teeth scrape ever so gently over my bottom lip, and when he releases it, his breath dances down to my chin, my throat, my collarbone. And he’s right. There’s nothing more beautiful than hearing that certain expletive breathed against my skin as he practically purrs, “Fucking perfection.”
I’m not exactly well-endowed in the breast department, but feeling his teeth graze along the top of my cleavage, feeling him palm me over the material of my dress, you would think he never beheld anything so glorious in his life. There’s both appreciation and frustration in his expression. The latter is hardly a surprise,not when the confines of my corset place a heavy layer between us that can’t be removed without stripping me down in the process.
That doesn’t deter his mouth. It moves between breasts, and goddamn him. Goddamn himandhis knee. His teeth test the sensitivity of my flesh, and all the while, his lips barely brush my skin at all…
It’s utter madness.
