“Slàinte mhath,” she said, tipping the flask in his direction, and she watched his jaw tighten, nostrils flaring. She sipped slowly, eyes fastened on him, and from one second to the next his lazy repose turned into something far more predatory.
A hunter ready to pounce.
“And I thought you were dangerous in Spanish.” His brogue was more pronounced now. Every word sinking into her bones like that first drop of rum on the tongue. Scalding and sweet. Luz should’ve heeded the danger there, but instead she drank deeply, never taking her eyes off him. When she was done she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, then offered Evan her flask.
“Would you like to try the top selection for sugar cane– distilled spirits?”
He didn’t answer, only moved closer. Heat bloomed inside her from the way he looked at her. Hunger—unfiltered, undistilled, burning hunger. As if he intended to swallow her whole.
Keep your head, Luz Alana. Lionesses are not meant to be prey.
“I’ll taste yours if you taste mine.”
Air could barely make it out of her lungs as his eyes raked over her. She felt his gaze on her skin like a flurry of heated caresses. He was testing her, letting her see he desired her. Taunting her to see if she’d crumble.
Luz handed Evan her flask, and she took his in exchange. She tipped her head, letting the smoky liquid flood her mouth, then watched him drink—mesmerized by the way his throat moved as he swallowed her rum. Once he’d finished, he sniffed the opening of her flask.
“Very complex. I didn’t expect the wood notes. What is it?”
“It’s the casks. Dominican mahogany.” She was enjoying the game now.
“Ah, the ones you’ll be giving me tomorrow when I secure your meeting with Seynabou.” She sniffed the air, and he grinned.
“So.” He eyed the flask in her hand. “What’s the verdict, Mademoiselle Caña Brava?”
With Evanston Sinclair, it was hard to know if he was teasing her or if she was supposed to be in on the joke. A million butterflies fluttered in her stomach just the same. “Good peat, prominent caramel notes. It’s decent,” she declared. He guffawed, and suddenly she was laughing too.
“The Braeburn—”Goodness, thoseRs again!“—is more than decent, beauty. It’s the top selection for grain-distilled spirits.” She couldn’t argue with that. Like Caña Brava, his whisky had ended the night a winner.
“Not as good as the Gran Reserva.” She took back her rum and secured it against her thigh. She would not react to the way his eyes followed the movements of her hand. “But good.”
“I’m glad the judges disagreed with you, then.” His smile was cool, but the fire behind that amber stare still burned bright.
“I’m not who needs to like your whisky. Don’t you have a betrothed who can provide the besotted feminine adulation you seem to desperately need?”
He angled his head down, so their mouths were only inches apart.
“Are you proposing, Luz Alana?”
It wasn’t a question; it was a challenge.
“May I remind you I have a pistol strapped to my thigh,” she warned, and his shoulders shook with laughter. “If you believe I won’t shoot because I am a woman, I suggest you reconsider.” The threat would have sounded far more severe if she wasn’t fighting the urge to press her nose or, worse, her mouth to that dip at the base of his neck. He smelled like tobacco, leather and the peat of the drink that had passed his lips, and why did she keep obsessing about the man’s mouth?
“I never knew imminent bodily harm could be this...riveting. Can I see it?”
Could he see what?
Her mind was swimming. Words barely registering. His voice was in large part to blame for her quandary. Silvery and intoxicating. Melting her to the core. That paired with his size and his perfectly shaped lips: it was an assault on the senses.
“You are quite the discovery, Miss Heith-Benzan.” He leaned in, his firm hand branding her lower back. She pushed up, certain this was the most reckless thing she’d done to date, but in that moment, she couldn’t muster up the ability to care. Luz was well aware what this would look like if anyone walked in on them, and she also knew nothing could pull her back from this precipice.
“Let’s have a taste, love,” he coaxed, fingers gently brushing her cheek. Every word out of his mouth was like a flame burning down her good sense. Her belly fluttered, and her nipples hardened as they brushed his jacket. The kiss was imminent, and she would let the world burn to get it. She held in a gasp as he brought her closer to him, crushing them together.
There would be consequences to this, she was sure, but still she closed her eyes expectantly.
“Alana,” he murmured as he ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. Such a light, gentle touch, from such a hard man. She ached with need, her mind wiped clean of anything else. Centuries of anticipation couldn’t have prepared her for the moment when he covered her mouth with his. She opened for him and he tasted her, delicately, just a flick of his tongue, and she melted for him. Evan anchored her to him with a strong arm around her waist, and then he went to work on her mouth. He explored her like his sole mission in life was to cherish every inch of her he could reach. She kissed him back, eagerly, mouth open, tongue timidly meeting his at first, then bolder when a sound of pleasure escaped him.
Why had no one told her kissing could be like this?
