Page 22

The image forms in my mind immediately. Jamie, on her back, spreading her legs and beckoning me to come closer.

Fuck, I want to taste her.

It’s not happening. I’m not thinking about it. I’m focused on the facts.

I stay on topic. “The note won’t be digital for at least a week.”

She smiles with victory. Duh, I know how this works better than you do. “That’s why I sent you a picture.” She stands and offers me her hands. “You want a cup of tea? I brought your favorite. That extra strong English breakfast. Cream and honey too. I could use a cup.” Vulnerability drops into her voice. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept thinking about you.”

My heart thuds against my chest, but hold my poker face. “Don’t fuck with me, princess.”

She looks into my eyes and runs her fingertips over my palm. “I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about how much I want you.” Think what you want about my morality. Call me a ruthless monster. But don’t try to say I don’t crave you.

My eyes flutter closed. For a second, I almost believe it. That she’s the woman I loved.

Her voice softens. “It’s hard for me in Italy.”

Is it true?

I have no idea. I can’t tell which notes are false anymore.

And I can’t concentrate with her fingertips on my skin. Not while she’s in control.

I can’t win my game.

So I change strategies. I play hers instead.

I take her hands and pull her body into mine.

She gasps as we connect. Legs, thighs, pelvis, chest.

I bring my hand to her hip. Brush my lips against the soft skin of her neck.

She lets out a soft murmur. A sound of simple, easy pleasure. As if she’s only here to fuck me again. As if all she wants is for us to be lovers again.

“You answered my dare,” she says, tilting her head to one side, offering her neck to me.

I kiss her again. Then it’s the soft scrape of my teeth.

Harder.

Hard enough her groan drops to a low, animal tone. The pure need that makes my toes curl.

She arches her back, rocking her body into mine, trying to take more than I’m offering.

The greed I remember.

Damn, it’s still my favorite thing about her.

“I can do this all afternoon. I’ve built up a tolerance to arsenic,” I say with a dare in my voice.

She groans as she runs her fingers over my skin. “What does arsenic taste like?”

That’s the wit I adored. “You tell me,” I say.

“It’s tasteless. That’s why it’s such a popular poison.” She tilts her head to the other side, inviting me to taste her there. “What do I taste like?”

Heaven. Hell. Some wonderful, terrible synthesis. “Like you.”