Well, that’s true.
His low and husky chuckle is shiver-inducing. “Maybe I set the bar too low.”
I give my head a tiny shake. “My prices have gone up considerably since.”
What the hell is wrong with me? The Rolos incident happened when I was nine! It’s not even a good story because my brother Dan punched the kid I’d bargained with, made his nose bleed, then ate my sweets as punishment!
Men can’t be trusted, and I need to remember the circumstances that brought me to this room.
“Is that so?”
I dig in, raise the wattage of my smile, and engage my superpower. It doesn’t matter what’s going on inside, the outer Lavender is cool, collected, and in mutha-puckin’ control.
“Knicker flashes require the purchase of at least three full-priced artworks these days.”
“If only you’d said that in the gallery.”
“If only you hadn’t said you wanted to take me out.”
“Why? What would that have cost me?”
“Your sanity, probably.”
Wow. I made the hot, growly man laugh—really laugh. The fact delights me so much, I have to look away, flicking my gaze over my shoulder.
Is that a Hockney in an alcove by the fireplace?
“Given this is neither a date nor a gallery purchase,” I say, moving my hands to his wrists, “I think you’ve manhandled my bottom sufficiently, don’t you?”
“Still want that drink?” His gaze falls to my mouth, his head tilting as he makes his intentions clear.
My hands seem to forget their purpose, sliding up to curve around his shoulders. “If you’re willing to risk your sanity.”
We gravitate closer until our breaths mingle, and the attraction between us burns like an electric haze. It feels like perfection when our lips meet. I find myself sighing as I sink into it. Soft yet masterful, his mouth works in tandem with mine, pleasure spiraling through me at the tiniest brush of his tongue.
“Oh.”
That tiny sound seems to be a signal, our kiss deepening, tongues tangling. He kisses the corner of my mouth, my jaw, his touch beginning to slide down my neck.
“Like champagne.” He presses the rumbling words into the sensitive skin, his big hands squeezing and pressing me closer.
“Raif.” His name is more moan than reprimand because his lips on my neck and the thick, hot feel of him does something wonderfully horrible to my insides. “Oh God.” So good, but…
I’ve been here before. I’ve let a man control the situation and get the better of me. Why this time—why now?
Because he kisses so well? Or because he’s set this whole thing up to see me again?
“M-more like chardonnay,” I stutter, even as I turn my head to give him better access to the sensitive skin of my neck.
He makes an inquiring sound against my throat, but his mouth doesn’t stop.
“The s-stuff we serve at showings. In p-plastic cups!”
A lick, a graze of his teeth, and I spiral into sensory overload. What’s happening to me? I’m the one who controls the situation—the narrative. But right now, all I can do is take.
His hand slides up my back, anchoring it in my hair. My pleasure/pain receptors fire and snap, my hair follicles somehow hardwired to the place between my legs. But then his frown becomes the sudden focus of my vision.
“Did you say plastic cups?”
