I think my mouth is open. It’s hard to tell, given the evocative images flooding my brain. I eventually master them, swapping them out for indignant. “If you’re suggesting—”
“I hear the going rate for teenage babysitters is pizza and ten bucks an hour. I’d settle for a cuppa and a friendly chat.”
Liar, my mind supplies. Those are just delaying tactics and another opportunity for you to part me from my panties.
“I expect yours is caffeine free?” He gestures to the cup on the dress, my tea currently going cold. “You wouldn’t want to be woken up from your date with Drew.” With this, his head droops as he play-acts dropping to sleep.
“I’m not making you tea.” I lift my hand to the stack of thin gold bangles, intending to slip them off when he says, “Don’t take them off.”
I glance over my shoulder at this almost rough command and wonder if I imagined it. He looks so composed. They’re still cupped in my hand as he adds, “Leave them. Please.”
So I do, moving my attention from my bangles to my earrings, a little bemused. Pulling off one of the backs, I slide the post from my ear. “I had a perfectly nice evening with Drew,” I say, picking up the previous thread. The tiny stone chimes as I drop it into the little china pot, and I move my attention to the other ear.
“Nice. Is that how I made you feel last week? Was it nice when I buried my face between your legs and ate you out until you cried?” Ow! Shit! I almost poke another hole in my ear with the second post. My heart stutters, a beat suddenly pounding hard between my legs as he says, “Was it nice, or was it perfect?”
But I don’t dignify him with a response. A verbal response, that is. Because Lord, is that question provoking other kinds of responses in me more enjoyable than my smarting ear.
“Nice is for pussies.” A rustle of bedding draws my attention to the mirror, to Roman sliding his legs from the side of the bed. “And your pussy deserves kneeling acts of devotion and tongues of reverence.”
Whether it’s his proximity, my simmering desire and anger, or the pictures his words paint, I spin around, unable to help myself. The man needs to be put in his place.
On his knees, between my legs.
No, I mean—
My toe catches on the ageing rug, and I trip, but I don’t end up on the floor in a heap as Roman catches me. The man has lightning reflexes as well as a dirty mouth. A wonderfully dirty mouth. His strong arm banding my waist, he swings me around as a counterpoint to my momentum. My breath catches, but surely he doesn’t hear except . . . he presses me closer to him along with that intake of breath. We still, neither of us daring to move. And it seems inevitable, as inevitable as falling, as his big hand splays across my ribs. A seismic tremor runs through me as his thumb coasts under my breast, my nipple stiffening under the confines of both bra and dress. I know I should say something. I should pull away. But I can’t. Not as his hot breath slips past my ear, making my nerve endings shimmer.
“Kennedy.” My name is a husky groan like I’m the enormous temptation here. Like he’s trying not to give in. “I didn’t know you like to watch.”
What?
Watch?
Watch what?
My head shakes almost infinitesimally. I can’t make sense of what he said. But then his hand flexes on my thigh, and I realise I didn’t just feel it. I saw it. Saw the way the fabric of my dress rose in the mirror. Enjoyed watching, too. Did he just happen to spin me to face Nana’s old armoire, or did I somehow put myself here?
“It seems like a missed opportunity,” he purrs. Did I just press my hand over his and squeeze? Or lengthen my neck to receive his lips. He doesn’t disappoint. “Tell the truth, little love.” But I can’t, not even with the encouraging persuasion of his tongue. “The chapter with the bookmark. I read it three times.”
In the mirror, his dark head bows, his lips fastening over my neck and making me sigh. Oh, God, that chapter is so hot, the way the devastatingly handsome yet Captain Mac seduces Arabella in front of a looking glass. But, holy moly, it’s not as hot as the real thing as Roman’s hand stirs under mine, pulling the hem of my dress higher. His mouth slides down my neck, his kiss slow, tender, and knee weakening.
We look so sexy. No, we look sensual. His large body a frame for mine as his hand slides my dress higher, revealing my thighs in pale slices of moonlight. His fingers curl around my inner thigh, his other hand pressed to my breast. I look like a captive—like the lady in the book. I look like I am wholly his. And I want to be. God, how I want. I want what I shouldn’t. I want what isn’t sensible.