The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

Daisy was genuinely sad to say good-bye to Chris an hour later. He had joined them at their table about half an hour before they left. Bringing coffee and rich chocolate cake to top off the perfectly decadent meal that Daisy knew she couldn’t afford to indulge in. Especially not a mere fortnight before squeezing herself into that sausage casing of a bridesmaid dress. She didn’t think she would ever be this comfortable and familiar with Christién Roche again. She might frequent his restaurant in the future without Mason, but she’d be just another customer.

Chris almost immediately dispelled that belief when he hugged her and said, “You come back any time, ma petite fleur. We will eat and drink and converse like the old friends we will soon become. Oui?”

“I’d like that so much,” she breathed, delighted by the invitation. And then even more delighted when—instead of the traditional double air kiss—he planted a great, smacking smooch right on her lips.

She was a little dazed when Mason led her back to the car and incoherent for the first five minutes of the drive home, barely registering anything Mason said. She only tuned back in when he pulled the car to the side of the road and turned off the engine.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Oh, back with me again, are you?” His voice was steeped in sarcasm.

“I mean, the guy kissed me, Mason. Did you see that?”

“Yeah, I saw it. Didn’t impress me much.”

“Well, it wouldn’t; you’re not into him at all.”

“And you are?”

“He smells nice and his lips are soft and very . . .”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake . . .”

He wasn’t going to listen to her rhapsodize about Chris’s lips, for fuck’s sake. Sure, the guy had laid one on her but had kept his eyes on Mason the entire time, clearly hoping to get some kind of reaction from him. And if he had prolonged that kiss a second longer he would have gotten Mason’s reaction right in the teeth. Not cool, man.

Now, only wanting to shut Daisy up about Chris’s dreamy lips, Mason cupped a hand around the nape of her neck to tug her closer, using his thumb to tilt her jaw up and her face toward him. He grunted in satisfaction when he had her lips angled exactly right and planted his own mouth over hers. Screw Chris, she’d forget about his lips in . . .

Jesus, her mouth is soft. He sighed and leaned in closer; she tasted even better than he remembered. Tart, sweet, and savory all at once. His thumb was stroking idle patterns down her throat, and he lifted his free hand to cup the other side of her jaw, sweeping both thumbs down the soft skin of her throat and pausing at her pulse points to enjoy the crazy fluttering of her heart. His tongue demanded entry, and she opened for him, her own meeting his with delicate, shy flicks. He wanted more, needed more, craved more. He fucking deserved more.

His breathing was out of control, and he was embarrassed by the hungry, primitive sounds coming from him as he deepened the kiss, one hand going to the back of her head and grabbing a fistful of that gorgeous hair before tugging and exposing her pale throat to him. His mouth moved down over that delicately scented column, farther down to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, and lower still to the gentle slope of her breast. She was making her own breathy sounds, the same sexy noises she made while she was eating. God, he had known that she would sound exactly like this when she was turned on.

His hand moved down, burrowing its way beneath her layers of clothes until flesh met flesh; he found the ripe curve of her breast and toyed with the laced edge of her bra, until he lost patience and fully cupped the sweet, soft mound. It filled his hand perfectly, the hard nipple burning into his palm like a hot little coal. He flexed his hand experimentally, catching the nipple into his contracting palm and was rewarded by the guttural sound of pleasure that caught in the back of her throat. She arched into him, and he lifted her breast, lowering his head toward it, desperate to get that sensitive peak into his mouth even through layers of clothes.

One of her hands was cupped around the back of his head, pulling him toward her, while the other clawed madly at his back. He could feel the scrape of her nails even through his thick shirt. He couldn’t get close enough, the seat belt restricting his range of movement, but before he could attempt to unfasten it, the sound of an air horn blaring as a truck shot by the car—close enough to rock it slightly—sent them both flying to their respective corners. Mason swore softly, and then put a little more effort into it, until the only sounds they could hear were the rain pattering on the roof, their heavy breathing, and Mason’s very prolific range of curse words.