“That doesn’t even make sense.” Maybe because my blood is pumping so hard, it’s starving my brain. I feel tiny in his arms. I mean, I am physically small, but I rarely feel so.
“We’re not late because my plane was.” His voice is husky and pitched low. “We’re lovers who’ve been separated by sea and by weeks. Everyone here—your colleagues, the people watching us right now, the people you like and the people you don’t—they know the real reason we’re late.” His eyes seem lit from within. “They can sense what we’ve been up to.”
Heat rises through me, like we’ve actually spent the afternoon fucking.
Wouldn’t that have been something.
Oh, my God, am I blushing?
I think I must be in shock. Eighteen months, and not once have I felt that visceral pull of attraction. The whole time, I’ve been deadened from the neck down. Discounting the hate that still burns in my heart, of course. I haven’t wanted sex at all—not with myself, not with anyone.
“No one’s w-watching us,” I stammer. Because why would they?They better not be, or they might ask why steam is currently rising from my skin.I give a tiny clearing of my throat and make to move away as though my knees aren’t a little unsteady and my heart isn’t jumping out of my skin. I’d better get a hold on this thing—a hold on myself, more like. “There really is no—”
His fingers tighten. I don’t pull away because ...
We’re just playing a part. Even if Ireallywant to dry hump him right now.
“Maybe you should’ve gone for an escort,” he murmurs, sliding away a lock of my hair. “At least then you’d have control.”
That heat coursing through me suddenly drops to my center, warming the space between my hips. “You think I’m not in control?” Damn the tiny waver in my voice.
He gives the kind of smile that causes me a jolt. Devilish? Rakish? I don’t know what the word is, but there is something overtly sexual about it. I get the feeling that I’ve missed something. Missed somethinginhim.
“It’s cute that you think you are. But you see, when we step into this room, you’re at the whim of a Latin lover.YourLatin lover,” he says, exaggerating his accent with extravagant rollingr’s. Well, maybe nothisaccent, but someone’s. Someone not at all Spanish and slightly comical.
“You’d better let me do the talking.” The man sure is pretty, but his Spanish accent is anything but. But there’s not a lot I can do about that now.
“I’m deeply offended,” he says, looking the exact opposite.
“Seriously, I appreciate your help, but—”
His expression flickers. Annoyance, maybe?
“—for the love of God, please don’t speak in here.”
“You’re dating a handsome mute. That’s the story you’re going with?”
“Better than Super Mario’s hotter brother!”
“Super Mario is Italian.”
“His Spanish cousin, then.”
“Fine.” His tone turns playfully flat. “I’ll restrain myself.”
“Good.” But I’m still hanging on to him like a lover about to be kissed. “Want to tell me why we’re still standing here like this?”
“A man without a voice. How else am I meant to get my point across?”
“I don’t know. Mime? Interpretive dance? I was kidding,” I tag on hastily when he moves a tiny inch.He wouldn’t, would he?
“That’s good, because I was thinking more along the lines of ...”
My eyes fall closed as he draws closer, and his lips brush mine. It’s barely a kiss—more a fleeting glance—but it’s enough to register how soft his lips are. And how my body shimmers with the desire to curl into his embrace.
“... that,” he murmurs, pulling away.
Were his eyes so dark before?“That,” I repeat, whisper soft.
