I drink in the sight of her, and now that we’re close, I can appreciate just how stunning she is. Taking a deep breath, I say, “I assure you, kitten, I’m not playing at anything.”
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“What?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“Kitten.” Her voice is sharp and aggressive, but I see the fear dancing in her eyes. There’s also curiosity, which means she’s not as cold toward me as she’d like me to believe.
A smile tugs at my mouth as I play with her. “But I don’t know your name. What else am I supposed to call you?”
“Definitely not that.” Her eyebrows are a sharp downward V. Intense, unafraid.
It doesn’t escape my attention that she’s not telling me her name.
I rise to my full height, and it forces her to tilt her head back to keep eye contact with me. “Tell me something, kitten.”
She furrows her brows more.
“If you are so frightened of me—”
“I’m not,” she grinds the words out between clenched teeth.
“Then tell me to leave,” I dare her, wanting to see just how brave she is.
Judging from her rigid stance, she wants to fight, but her own curiosity keeps her from saying the words.
“Mhh …” Shaking my head, I start to slowly move closer until there’s only a breath of air between us. Our eyes lock, and then I murmur, “I get the feeling you’re just as interested as I am. I dare you to deny it.”
Her soft scent fills my nostrils—sweat and perfume in equal measure. It’s feminine and alluring. My cock strains against the fabric of my pants, and for a moment, I’ve forgotten all about the goddamned Irish, about the electronics shipment and the weapons I need to collect… about everything outside this room.
There’s only this girl with the defiant look in her eyes and body made for sinful nights. Slowly, I lower my gaze, again reveling in the sight of her curves all the way down to her creamy white thighs on full display due to her short skirt.
What it would feel like to have those thighs wrapped around my neck while I feast on her pussy.
This is out of character for me. I’m always in control of my emotions, of everything, but with this girl, I want to say fuck it all and give in to the lust she makes me feel.
Would she stop me if I took her right here?
I’m too far gone to wonder about what the hell I’m doing in this room with this girl or to ask myself why I’m having such a strong reaction to her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, her voice nothing but a choked whisper, and fuck, it turns me on even more.
Leaning a little down, I bring my eyes back to hers and take a deep breath of her soft, intoxicating scent. “In my line of work, a man quickly learns how to read people,” I murmur, keeping my tone intimate. It makes her pupils dilate as she stares up at me. “What they want. Their fears… and your body is screaming with need, which is a total contradiction to what you’d like me to believe.”
She tips her chin up, fighting to remain defiant even though there’s a soft flush of heat on her cheeks. Then she stammers, “S-Stop.”
We’re wrapped in a bubble filled with anticipation and intimacy, her green eyes wide on mine. The hand holding the tray has fallen to her side, and only a breath of air and our clothes separates my cock from her sinful body.
Slowly, I let out a breath, and unable to resist, I lift my hand to brush my fingers over the creamy stretch of skin, visible between the hem of her shirt and her skirt.
Suddenly, the music stops, breaking our spell. Glancing over my shoulder, I frown as my eyes settle on the door.
I’m here for business, and god only knows how long I’ve been in this room with this girl.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Anger flickers in my chest because I practically lost my control over a girl I know nothing about.
She lets out a taunting laugh. “I knew it,” she mocks. “You’re a faker, after all. Marcello, my ass. By the way, you’re just as paranoid as the two Irish guys in the back. Is it a Mafia thing?”
My blood runs cold in my veins as my gaze snaps back to the girls. “What did you just say?”
For a moment, confusion flashes over her beautiful features. “The faker part?”
“No,” I growl. “What Irishmen?”
She shrugs nonchalantly, and with the sexual tension gone between us, I narrow my eyes on her.
Something is very wrong.
“The two Irish guys,” she repeats. “The ones sitting in the back, blabbering about Italians and Russians and some other stuff. I don’t know. I didn’t catch it all. They looked like you, though, paranoid as hell.”