Page 19 of Resist

“I’m not quite sure. You’re smart, obviously educated, well mannered . . . and arguably stunning . . . but there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on that tells me this”—he flicks his hand in between us—“isn’t you.”

Making sure my breath remains steady, I try to move this evening to where it needs to go. Onto him and off me. “I think it’s time we move on to dessert.”

And without saying another word, I slowly slide out of the booth with our eyes locked and make my way toward the front of the restaurant, curious how long it will take for him to follow suit.

The sooner this is over, the better for me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Vaughn

When we were having dinner, a small part of me forgot what was supposed to happen next. Surprisingly, I was enjoying his company, our banter, the conversation with an intelligent adult, and so for that brief moment, I lost track of what this was.

That I was playing a role and he was paying for my time.

He charmed me when I’m rarely charmed.

He wined and dined and enchanted me, and now I have to take my clothes off and give him my body.

And now the one part of the evening I was more than certain I could handle feels off.

The sound of him moving around the suite at my back makes this more real than I expected—the clink of the decanter lid hitting the edge of the glass is like a reminder that I have a job to do.

Disconnect. Close your mind. Shut everything down.

It’s just sex. Just an exchange of power. It’s just an act like it’s always been before.

When I turn to face him, I don’t expect him to be standing there in the dim light of the room with his shirt unbuttoned and his tie resting loosely around his neck. I don’t expect to see that look in his eye and to suddenly realize how damn attractive he is.

Unsure what to do only because I’ve never been in this situation before and nerves have taken hold, I begin to shrug out of the arms of my dress and let that part pool around my hips. No fuss. No frills. Just get to the endgame.

“Mmm. Not so fast,” Ryker murmurs. His eyes darken as he sets his glass down on the console beside him before taking a step into me. “I’m a man who likes to take his time.”

I almost laugh. Those words coming from a man are like an oxymoron and just the words I need to hear to calm me down and remind me what this is. Who this is.

So when he stands inches before me, his eyes on mine and our lungs breathing the same sexually charged air, I’m far from prepared for what I feel.

I expected indifference.

What I got was anticipation.

It’s something I’ve never felt in the moments before a kiss. It’s something I never wanted in the brief meeting of lips. But in those few seconds between him stepping forward, his hands touching my bare arms, and him leaning into me so his chest brushes ever so slightly against mine, I feel it.

It’s foreign to me. And for the briefest of moments I attempt to fight it, but the thought is erased the moment his mouth meets mine.

Gone is the awkwardness I expected there to be. The sex will be casual, yes, but the attraction is mutual, and that’s something you can’t fake. That’s something hurried words or soft caresses can’t make up for.

Our lips move.

It’s a soft sigh of a kiss. A tender brush of lips on lips as the heat of his body begins to warm mine up against the chill of the air-conditioned room.

I taste the whiskey on his tongue. Feel the softness yet adeptness of his lips as they move against mine. Feel the scrape of his evening stubble against my chin.

Our hands move.

Cool palms and anxious fingers slide around my waist and rest on my bare skin. They then move up the plane of my back to frame the sides of my face as his tongue coaxes mine. Chills chase over my body as the slow ascent of arousal begins to burn into desire.

I want him when I typically don’t want.