His eyes dart down to my mouth when I speak and it reminds me that, while he may have bested me like a damn amateur, I’m not entirely defenseless.
I arch my back to press my chest against his. He laughs, but the sound is mirthless.
Using his free hand, he holds my jaw and makes me face only him. No matter my wriggling or fighting, he has me completely pinned.
“You got too cocky when you needed to stay fast on your feet,” he says. I arch further bringing my chest up to meet his body. My tits glide across his chest and he stiffens. “If I had a weapon?—”
“You’d what? Have already killed me?”
“What would you do, Marianna?” he asks instead of humoring my taunt. “How do you get out of this?”
“I break his nose with my skull,” I say. He moves his hand from my jaw down to around my throat and lightly squeezes.
“If he holds your head down?” he asks, breathless.
My thoughts race as quickly as my pulse beneath his fingers. I can’t think clearly when he’s touching me like this, his presence overwhelms my senses entirely, and it is a dangerous thing.
“You wouldn’t come for me?” I ask.
“I would always come for you.”
I lick my lips and the slightest groan escapes his throat as I do. Pressed between us, I feel him getting hard and it makes me grin. Even though he’s right—pinned as I am, I would be in horrible danger—I feel I’ve still got a leg up in this fight.
He lets go of my throat and his eyes betray him when he glances down at my mouth again for a too-long moment. His throat bobs with a gulp. I look at his lips.
He hasn’t touched me in a private, intimate way since his hands skimmed up my legs in Mexico—in fact, he hasn’t even seen me naked unless accidentally walking in on me changing and quickly walking out of the room. I think he’s been aiming for chivalry, letting me settle in before really going to town on the baby making. How polite.
I lift my neck to bring my mouth closer to his, and he looks at me with surprise. His eyelashes are long and dark, he’s so intensely handsome it boggles my mind sometimes.
I give him a tentative nod, permission to close the space between his mouth and mine.
The firm pressure on my arms loosens and his free hand slides lightly down my side, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Slowly, he readjusts his legs, freeing mine.
“You win,” he murmurs. “You are a good fighter.”
“I know,” I whisper. And then he brings his mouth down to meet mine.
Kissing him is dizzying; his lips are so soft and warm, I could lose myself in them easily. His tongue presses into my mouth and it shocks me into granting him entrance. He still has my arms above my head, but only half-heartedly keeping me there while his mouth moves skillfully over mine. His non-gloved hand slides around my neck and tilts my head back farther so he can deepen the kiss.
I usually hate kissing when hooking up. It’s not that I’m not good at it, only that it allows too much time for my mind to wander. This feels nothing like the usual kisses with strangers, this—just this—I could do for hours.
His five o’clock shadow rubs my chin in a way that really does make me feel lightheaded, and I worry that my mom will come to retrieve us for dinner and find us here like horny teenagers.
I thought I would use my feminine wiles to seduce my way into winning this fight, but now I find myself considering how I can get his clothes off of him, and that isnotthe energy I need when I’m supposed to be mad at him. Iamstill mad at him.
I gather the remaining shreds of my sanity to get a damn grip and use my body weight to push him over. He doesn’t fight me—I suspect if he wanted to he could keep me beneath him very easily, but he lets me roll him, my mouth still on his while I move to straddle him.
I push away from him quickly, and scramble to my feet to not give in and kiss him again. He lifts on one of his elbows, bewildered, and his erection is obscene in his slacks. I take three big steps back and remove my gloves, depositing them on the counter in a rush.
“I have to shower,” I say, backing toward the stairs.
And then I leave my husband there, still laying out on the mat, and retreat upstairs to my bathroom.
20
MAXIM
The Donovannsand their three kids have arrived by the time Marianna comes downstairs with her hair dampening the shoulders of a cranberry red sweater. Seeing her niece across the table from me, my wife walks directly to us.
