He doesn’t answer, but leans forward, his gaze locking on mine once again. I stare at him, my throat tight, my pulse quickening. His face is very close now. There’s fire in his darkened eyes, and his expression is completely unguarded.
I freeze up, unsure what to do.
But he seems to have an idea. His hand brushes my cheek, and a second later, his lips meet mine. The kiss is light at first, like the one we shared at the altar. But when I don’t pull away, he presses his lips more firmly against mine. They are a great match for mine, because the sensation is shockingly satisfying. His scent, the feel of his skin, his pheromones envelop me.
Antoine parts his lips, sending my senses into overdrive. I respond instinctively by opening my mouth. His tongue dips in at once and dances teasingly against mine. My heart pounds as I savor his touch, his taste. The man is yummy, no less delectable than a good tiramisu.
He deepens the kiss. His hands plunge into my hair, and I like the way he rakes his fingers through it. The balls of his palms massage my scalp. Our bodies gravitate closer together as if pulled by an invisible force that neither of us can resist. He cradles my face, holding me with a tenderness that sends shivers down my spine. I moan with pleasure.
Everything falls away—my doubts, our issues, the music box, the pretense. I find myself not giving a damn that there are no cameras around to film this kiss so Mike can see it. Actually, I’m thankful for that.
For the first time since I arrived on the set of this show, I’m not playing a part, not pretending to be excited, or happy, or falling in love.
I’m simply having a hell of a good time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LAURA
The first thing I hear when I wake up is Antoine’s voice, low and firm, muffled by the bedroom door. My eyes crack open against the soft morning light streaming in through the sheer curtains. Antoine’s tone sounds very different. Gone is the laid-back vibe. There’s a hard, commanding quality to his voice that I haven’t heard before.
I sit up slowly, catching bits of his conversation.
“…no, that’s unacceptable. I don’t care about their timeline. Ours takes priority.”
Yawning, I stretch and rub my eyes. Last I checked, tattoo artists didn’t have urgent timelines. Well, maybe if someone booked two full sleeves last minute… But even then, Antoine’s vocabulary sounds off.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, tiptoe to the door and peek through the crack. Antoine is pacing near the French windows, one hand gripping his phone, and the other in his hair.
“I said no,” he barks. “Tell them to find another way.”
OK, so either he’s an unusually intense bohemian, or something doesn’t add up.
I push the door open. “Morning.”
He spins around, his face the picture of guilt. “Laura. You’re awake.”
“Who’s the poor soul on the other end, getting the roasting?”
He hesitates for a split second too long. “My accountant.”
“Your accountant?”
“I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone before looking at me again. “Believe it or not, but all businesses, tattoo parlors included, need an accountant. Taxes, you know.”
“Riiight, of course.”
He narrows his eyes, sensing the sarcasm in my voice. I step past him toward the coffee table.
He leans against the window frame, arms crossed. “You have a sharp ear.”
“And you have a terrible poker face,” I shoot back, turning on the coffee maker.
I expect him to argue, but he just laughs softly and pushes off the frame. “I’ll give you some privacy for your morning routine.”
He walks off, leaving me to stare after him.
Accountant, my foot.I smirk and pick up a coffee cup.
