The Millionaire Affair(17)

     



 

"Are you where you want to be in life?" he asked.

Kimber frowned, a neat little pleat slicing between her amber brows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I didn't mean anything other than what I asked." He slipped his glasses  off and dropped them on the table next to his drink. "You're listening  with your heart, getting hurt by something I didn't say."

She placed her wineglass on the table and sat back again, quiet as if  considering his words. And fidgeting. She pulled on her earlobe, stroked  her hair behind her ear, brushed her finger over the tip of her nose.  She was like a nervous squirrel. It drove him crazy, and not in a good  way …  or in a very good way, depending on his perspective.

"I bet you couldn't hold still if you tried," he said, his voice a low warning.

She frowned at him, folding her hands into her lap. Her brows went up as  she accepted his challenge, but a second later, she pulled the inside  of her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Told you." He cupped her chin and pulled her lip free from her teeth  with his thumb. The moment he touched her, his big "thinky" brain  shorted out. He knew he shouldn't kiss her. Knew he was reacting to the  stress from work, or Evan's and Angel's suggestions that Kimber liked  him. Or maybe he was simply responding to the attraction that had lit  between them last night in the brief, heated space separating their  bodies. The same attraction that burned now. He knew all of those  things. Intellectually.

But he leaned across the short distance and laid his lips against hers anyway.

A sigh drifted out of her mouth and her eyes fluttered closed. As if he  was giving her the best gift in the world. His pants grew tight in an  instant. A smart guy would pull back, excuse himself to bed, and  apologize for being rash. He was a smart guy. So why was he still moving  his mouth gently along hers?

Because she tastes too damn good, came the answer. He traced her bottom  lip with his tongue; tasting the red wine on her mouth, savoring the  notes of raspberry and dark cherries lingering there. Delectable.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned into him, one knee digging  into his leg, and pulled his head toward hers. She darted her tongue  into his mouth while he fought to keep pace. He clasped her at the ribs,  holding her against him, and matched her mouth blow for blow. It was  erotic as hell to have this woman literally writhing against him, her  soft braless breasts pressed into his chest, her mouth making his brain  relay information in sluggish Morse code.

"Your knee," he said between her devouring his mouth. He cupped her knee  in his palm to relieve the pressure-the bruise she was leaving on his  leg-and slid her leg aside.

"Oh," she breathed into his mouth. Her glassy eyes cleared and she abruptly pulled away and sat back on her heels.

He sat in exactly the same position, his back to the couch, arms at his  sides, erection throbbing loud enough for the neighbors to hear …

She grew restless, eyes darting around the porch, shoulders shifting.  She reached for her Pinot Noir and took a drink. So fidgety.

He chuckled.

After she swallowed her wine, she frowned. "What?"

"Nothing."

The main difference between her and him was she had no clue what she was  capable of; probably didn't know where she'd be in two years. He knew  what he was capable of. Knew who he was, and who he wasn't. He'd plotted  and planned his life out in incremental pieces for the last decade.  Where he'd bet Kimber had been flying by the seat of her tantalizingly  tight pants since adolescence.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?" he asked, curious if he was right. But he was. He knew it.

She let out a short laugh. "Back on the interview clock?"

"Just trying to prove a point."

Anger flared in her green eyes. "What point? Don't dance around it. Just say it."

Fair enough. "You're looking for who you are. You're tempting and sexy  and I can see that you like me. But you also don't know what you want."

He'd offended her. A scowl bisected her forehead. "And you do?"

"Yes." He wanted predictability, a company that excelled, a glass of thirty-year-old scotch on the balcony of his penthouse.

"I've liked you for a long time, Landon."

Her honesty and the turn of the conversation took him by surprise. He  broke his casual position by bending forward and taking a drink. When he  leaned back, she was waiting for his reaction. Maybe for him to say he  liked her, too. And he did. But telling her that would set high  expectations.

Too high.

"I know you do." He hated to ruin her peaches-and-cream worldview, to  point out the thorns in her rose-colored glasses, but he didn't want to  lie to her, either. "I don't want to sully who you are," he said. "I  don't want to see you jaded. Bitter." Like me.         

     



 

She blinked a few times. "Wow. Cocky much?"

He sniffed. "Not cocky. Just honest."

She shifted in her seat, her shoulders going back, her chin lifting in  defiance. Her nipples pressed against the beaded owl on the shirt she  wore, a distracting view, but he forced his eyes back to her face. Eyes  that flared with bottle-green anger. Redhead. He'd never dated a redhead  before. Maybe the lore was true and she was every bit the hothead she  appeared to be right now.

"Just because I follow my heart," she said adamantly, her face a  confusion of strength and hurt. "Just because I'm transparent and not in  control of my every body movement"-she gestured with her hands, sending  her small breasts sliding against the shirt and turning him on even  more-"doesn't mean I'm a doe-eyed innocent. I know what I'm doing. I  think I can handle kissing you without losing all essence of who I am."  Clutching the tie around his neck, she leaned in. "I am an independent,  intelligent woman who does not need to be saved from anyone. Least of  all you."

She was a woman all right. A seething, beautiful woman who was very  close to him and smelling like the cucumber body wash stocked in her  bathroom. He knew. He'd grown accustomed to the warm, sweet scent that  eked its way into the hall every morning after her shower.

"I wasn't being insulting," he said, hiding his amusement.

"Yes you were," she challenged, tugging him closer. He went, the tension  pulling the tie against the back of his neck, unable to keep from  admiring how beautiful she was, even this close. Natural, naked skin,  full lips …  "But I forgive you."

The side of his mouth ticked. He was going to kiss her again. But he'd  give her a chance to make the first move. She did, fisting his tie even  tighter and laying her lips onto his, but she didn't stop there. With  the swing of her leg over his lap, she settled on top of him. She sat  right over his manhood, heat emanating from her core and through his  slacks.

It wasn't often, if ever, he found himself turned on by being put in his  place. Was rarely ever put in his place, come to think of it. He would  concede he'd given Kimber less credit than she deserved. Either she knew  what she wanted, or had opted to take the upper hand when she found  herself at a disadvantage. He respected both tactics.

She deepened the kiss, running her hands through his hair and clutching  his head. His hands went to her butt, cupping and kneading the soft  globes in his palms, stopping short of grinding her against him and  relieving the painful ache pounding his balls like a pair of bongos.

She stroked his tongue with hers, completely in control of this kiss and  knowing where to take him. He fought to keep up, to figure out what she  might do next, to catch the curveballs she was throwing. God, it was  exciting. Amazing. The not-knowing …  who knew that could be so  enthralling?

Then she stopped. Abruptly. Just turned off like a switch, climbed from  his lap, reclaimed her wine, and settled onto the cushion she'd been  lounging on when he'd first walked out here.

He licked the side of his mouth, still tasting her there, his hands at  his sides, chest heaving, hair probably a mess from her roaming fingers.

She wouldn't look at him, a study in casualness except for the one hand  forced into a fist at her side. Trying to keep herself from fidgeting,  no doubt. She was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. And she'd more than  proved her point. If he wanted a partner to spar with, in bed or out,  she was a worthy opponent, not some delicate flower he had to handle  with care.

Giving in and moving the hand she'd forcibly stilled, she pushed her  hair over her shoulder and studied the skyline. The moon was an  unimpressive half, not a fancy crescent or mournful full. His chin was  elevated when she spoke next, her words stunning him so much, he snapped  his head to face her.

"Hope no one saw that and is uploading it to YouTube." She blinked as if  she'd stunned herself, too. "I'm so sorry. That was …  wow. Rude. I'm  sorry."

He found himself mildly amused. "It's fine, really." It was.