The Sicilian's Secret Son

Which made fantasizing about this man’s bottom lip okay. Or rather, it was still a dumb thing to do, but at least it wasn’t morally wrong.

Staring at it, she found herself longing to soothe the tension from the wide shape of it, lick and discover his taste and textures, feel his mouth cover hers and—

A strange light grew to a hot gleam in his gaze.

She realized she was leaning in.

With a small gasp, she pulled back, but he stayed exactly where he was, moving nothing but his eyes. He took his time sliding his perusal down her clean if wrinkled T-shirt and clean, faded jeans. Her chest grew tight, nipples stinging. Heat burned into her loins. Finally his gaze came back to what had to be a culpable expression on her face.

“Where are you staying?” His tone had gone from sandpaper to whiskey.

She swallowed. Licked her lips, drawing his gaze to her own mouth. Oh, dear.

“Um.” For a second, she ho

nestly couldn’t recall. Then managed to give him the name of her hotel.

He dismissed it with a curl of his lip. “My place, then. We’ll have dinner. You can show me exactly how persuasive you claim to be.”