her was as much a reflex to him as breathing. She was much better off
pretending her reaction to him was just as superficial.
With a philosophical shrug, she dug her spoon into the raspberry tart and changed
the words she’d been about to speak.
“I was just going to ask if you thought it was too late to cancel our dessert order.
But it is too late,” she said in between melting bites of crème-filled pastry and
tangy fruit, adding under her breath, “too late for any number of things.”
If he heard her, he ignored it. Then reached across the table to swipe a finger at
the corner of her lips.
“I don’t believe in skipping dessert,” he said. Without thinking, she darted her tongue
to the corner of her mouth and licked the spot where he’d touched her. His eyes narrowed.
“You should always save room,” he brought the dab of chocolate-frosted pastry to his
own mouth, “for something sweet.”
She forced a laugh. Tried to sound blasé. “What a line, Damico. Do you find that usually
works best on really dim women?”
He captured her hand in his own and gently curled her fingers into her palm, leaving
one finger extended to be dragged through the espresso-chocolate glaze drizzled artfully
on one plate.
“I think you’re sweet,” he said and lifted her hand. She watched, fascinated, as his
mouth, that sculpted heavy mouth, opened and he sucked the tip of her finger. She
felt the scrape of his tongue against her skin like a charge of electricity, and fought
down the need to squirm in her seat. He was slow to pull her fingertip from his mouth,
but then he grinned at her and delivered a wink. “Now
that’s
a line.”
She laughed again, sharp and hard this time. Jesus, did the man always have to tease
her about sex? A woman could only take so much of that kind of thing without needing
to throw
someone
on the floor and have her way with him.
“I gotta pee,” she announced and popped up from her seat. If she didn’t step back
from the erotic tension at this table, she was about thirty seconds from needing to
fan herself. While panting. Hard.
She didn’t just need to splash some cold water on her face. She ought to pour a pitcher
of it down her dress.
* * *
J.D. watched Sarah walk away from the table. The gleam in his eyes probably would
have scared her if she’d turned around and caught it. When he saw her stumble, catch
herself with a hand on the back of another diner’s striped armchair, and then continue
on more slowly, flapping that hand near her face, that gleam slid into a wicked grin.
Well, well. How unexpected.
Not only her reaction. His own was more of a surprise.
He wasn’t sure at what point in the evening his mood had changed from irritation and
exasperation at this mercurial roller coaster of a woman, into this building need
to lick and taste her all over.
She would walk like she was strutting across a river on a bridge made of the backs
of her old lovers. And then forget to breathe when he sucked the tip of her finger.
She’d risk thousands on a hand of poker while holding nothing but a pair of face cards.
And then be afraid to risk standing too close to him in the middle of the crowded
casino floor.
He’d wanted her the minute he saw her in that excuse for a dress she was wearing.
Of course he had. That wasn’t exactly his brain doing the thinking. But he’d never
expected to find her fascinating.
She was Sarah. Just Sarah. The girl he’d known since he was too young to know that
girls were the best thing going.
But this Sarah was some other creature entirely. And he didn’t believe for a minute
that this was some kind of temporary facade thrown up for a couple of fun-filled days
by an otherwise soberly stern woman. Unlike the abandoned Beatrice, Sarah didn’t have
a false bone in her body. Las Vegas might be the only place where she indulged in
this side of her personality, but Sarah was far too
pretending her reaction to him was just as superficial.
With a philosophical shrug, she dug her spoon into the raspberry tart and changed
the words she’d been about to speak.
“I was just going to ask if you thought it was too late to cancel our dessert order.
But it is too late,” she said in between melting bites of crème-filled pastry and
tangy fruit, adding under her breath, “too late for any number of things.”
If he heard her, he ignored it. Then reached across the table to swipe a finger at
the corner of her lips.
“I don’t believe in skipping dessert,” he said. Without thinking, she darted her tongue
to the corner of her mouth and licked the spot where he’d touched her. His eyes narrowed.
“You should always save room,” he brought the dab of chocolate-frosted pastry to his
own mouth, “for something sweet.”
She forced a laugh. Tried to sound blasé. “What a line, Damico. Do you find that usually
works best on really dim women?”
He captured her hand in his own and gently curled her fingers into her palm, leaving
one finger extended to be dragged through the espresso-chocolate glaze drizzled artfully
on one plate.
“I think you’re sweet,” he said and lifted her hand. She watched, fascinated, as his
mouth, that sculpted heavy mouth, opened and he sucked the tip of her finger. She
felt the scrape of his tongue against her skin like a charge of electricity, and fought
down the need to squirm in her seat. He was slow to pull her fingertip from his mouth,
but then he grinned at her and delivered a wink. “Now
that’s
a line.”
She laughed again, sharp and hard this time. Jesus, did the man always have to tease
her about sex? A woman could only take so much of that kind of thing without needing
to throw
someone
on the floor and have her way with him.
“I gotta pee,” she announced and popped up from her seat. If she didn’t step back
from the erotic tension at this table, she was about thirty seconds from needing to
fan herself. While panting. Hard.
She didn’t just need to splash some cold water on her face. She ought to pour a pitcher
of it down her dress.
* * *
J.D. watched Sarah walk away from the table. The gleam in his eyes probably would
have scared her if she’d turned around and caught it. When he saw her stumble, catch
herself with a hand on the back of another diner’s striped armchair, and then continue
on more slowly, flapping that hand near her face, that gleam slid into a wicked grin.
Well, well. How unexpected.
Not only her reaction. His own was more of a surprise.
He wasn’t sure at what point in the evening his mood had changed from irritation and
exasperation at this mercurial roller coaster of a woman, into this building need
to lick and taste her all over.
She would walk like she was strutting across a river on a bridge made of the backs
of her old lovers. And then forget to breathe when he sucked the tip of her finger.
She’d risk thousands on a hand of poker while holding nothing but a pair of face cards.
And then be afraid to risk standing too close to him in the middle of the crowded
casino floor.
He’d wanted her the minute he saw her in that excuse for a dress she was wearing.
Of course he had. That wasn’t exactly his brain doing the thinking. But he’d never
expected to find her fascinating.
She was Sarah. Just Sarah. The girl he’d known since he was too young to know that
girls were the best thing going.
But this Sarah was some other creature entirely. And he didn’t believe for a minute
that this was some kind of temporary facade thrown up for a couple of fun-filled days
by an otherwise soberly stern woman. Unlike the abandoned Beatrice, Sarah didn’t have
a false bone in her body. Las Vegas might be the only place where she indulged in
this side of her personality, but Sarah was far too