He noticed, of course. “When was the last time you ate?”
I chewed my lip. “This morning.”
His eyes flared with disapproval, probably because it was the meal I only ate half of in his office. “Do you starve yourself often?”
I frowned. “No. I just forget sometimes.”
“What are you hungry for?”
Anything, really. But one thing came to mind.
“French fries.”
He smiled. “Such an American girl.”
Five minutes later, I had a hot container of french fries in my hand. I ate the salty pieces of heaven with relish. He watched me eat, giving me more attention than he gave to the opera we just watched, and it made my heart play with fire in my chest.
I offered him one, which annoyed him.
“Stop giving away the things I buy you.”
To hide a small smile, I bit the fry in half.
His eyes dropped to my mouth, and warmth poured through my body as I licked the salt from my lips. Ronan’s irises were a desolate black when he glanced away.
We spent the rest of the short ride in silence. His hand rested on his thigh, and I’d never been more aware of a man’s hands in my life. I bet they would touch a woman with assurance, with confidence . . . maybe even a little roughly. At the thought, the thigh showing through the slit in my dress vibrated with hypersensitivity. Goose bumps spread across my body where my leg brushed his, and Ronan’s narrowed gaze observed the contact, a tattooed finger tapping on his leg.
The soda can of a car popped and fizzed.
My body grew hot as I imagined him sliding his hand up that bare skin and beneath my dress. Just the idea of it hit me like a drug, a hot and restless energy expanding in my blood.
Although, I knew he wouldn’t touch me. Not naïve and innocent me. I knew if I wanted him to see me differently, seriously, I would have to take matters into my own hands. I would have to be forward, like Liza.
Knowing a note from her sat in his pocket offering most likely some kind of sexy proposition and the fact he might have left me at the car to go meet with her, I felt oddly . . . jealous. An uncomfortable knot twisted and turned inside of me, and that hint of green fire gave me a rush of bravery.
Well, a tepid rush of bravery.
As he walked me up to my room, nerves danced and wreaked havoc in my stomach. My hands were clammy, so I wiped them on my dress.
“You never told me what you do,” I said absently to distract myself, because that tepid bit of bravery grew colder with each step closer to my door.
He was saying something from one step behind, but I couldn’t hear a word. My heart pounded in my throat, blood rushed to the surface of my skin, and then, I did it.
I turned around and kissed him, mid-sentence.
It was slightly off-center. Unpracticed. Our teeth clinked.
I pulled back to see his eyes sparkling with dry amusement as he wiped the side of his mouth with a thumb. But I was too hot, too high on the small contact of our lips to be embarrassed about what an utter failure that was.
“Kotyonok.” He drew the word out in a low warning. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
Nope.
Not at all.
I shook my head.
He watched me. “Do you usually kiss your dates like that?”