Page 109 of Seduction Under the Southern Stars
He finishes his wine before me, tipping back his head to swallow the last drops and exposing his neck, with the slight bump of his Adam’s apple and the attractive hollow at the base of his throat. I bite my lip, tempted to climb onto the table, crawl forward, sink my teeth into him, and suck until I leave a mark, branding him so all the other girls know he’s mine.
Because he is mine—for the next few days at least. That’s what I’m going to pretend, anyway.
I finish my wine slowly on purpose, taking small sips and forcing him to wait. He gives a short laugh, obviously seeing what I’m doing, and his knee bounces up and down under the table, his motor running and ready to go. I imagine the blood racing around his body, the hormones starting to pour into his system, his body, like mine, preparing itself for our coupling. God, I’m turning myself on now. I need to go to the apartment so I can get my hands on him.
I swallow the last mouthful of wine and put the empty glass on the table. “I think I might have a coffee.”
He throws me a hot glance. “Not a chance. Come on.”
I stifle a giggle and get to my feet. After thanking the waiter—and watching Linc tip him like an Italian gangster in the nineteen-sixties—I head for the door, and we go out into the warm evening air.
Linc takes my hand, and we walk along the open corridor toward our apartment.
“That was a nice meal,” I say innocently.
“It was. I’m glad I had the beef. I think I’m going to need the iron.”
I giggle. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You’re determined to sex me to death, aren’t you?”
“Well I’m not into necrophilia, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He laughs out loud, stopping to open the door to the block. “Get in there,” he says, smacking my butt as I pass him. “You drive me crazy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I stick my tongue out at him as he opens the apartment door, then slip by him.
He follows me in, and we go into the dimly lit living room. The staff have been in, and everything has been cleaned and tidied. When I glance into the bedroom, I see that the bed has been made.
The sun is sinking toward the horizon, and the view looks as if it’s made from metal—all steel, copper, bronze, and gold, and all dazzling in the late sun’s rays.
I feel over-excited, my heart racing, my face flushed and burning. I want him to take me into the bedroom and screw me senseless, but despite the alcohol, a kaleidoscope of butterflies flutters inside me.
I glance over at the front door, fighting the urge to cross to it and check that it’s locked. Again, and again.
“Come here,” he says gently, bringing my gaze back to him. He takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom. “Take off your shoes,” he instructs, toeing off his own Converses.
I bend and remove my sandals. I’m wearing navy capri pants and a pretty light-orange tee. Does he want me to take them off? I go to remove the tee, but he takes my hands, shakes his head, and leads me over to the bed.
Then he pulls me toward him and gives me a hug.
“We’re going to make out for a while,” he murmurs, his lips touching my hair. “Let our dinner go down for a bit while we just kiss and cuddle. Is that okay?”
Relief flows through me that he understands how I’m feeling, and I bury my face in his shirt. “How do you always know how to make me feel better?”
“Skill.” He chuckles, and I smile as I feel it rumble through his chest. The truth is, though, that he does seem to understand me. He reads between the lines, as he always has, knowing when there’s a secret message hidden beneath the obvious one.
“Come on,” he says, “give me a hand.”
Together, we pull the sheets and quilt out where it’s been tucked beneath the mattress, then he folds back one side and gestures for me to climb on. Fully clothed, I get into bed, and he slides in beside me, pulls me into his arms, and brings the quilt and sheets up over us.
“We’ll get hot,” I tell him, happiness making me glow.
“I’m planning on it.” He tucks a finger under my chin, lifts it to get better access to my mouth, then kisses me.
We make out, as he calls it, for ages. He shows no sign of getting exasperated or fed up with it, and instead it’s me who starts to get fidgety, as his mouth moves across mine with agonizing slowness, teasing me with his lips, teeth, and tongue. He slides his tongue inside my mouth repeatedly, the erotic slickness of it making my nipples tighten, and when he eventually brushes a hand over my breasts, I groan out loud as they tingle, sending reverberations through my whole body.
“Slowly, baby,” he says, “let’s draw this out, okay?”
