Untouched by Maisey Yates Page A

in real life. Than to risk real-life feelings.
    “Men are predictable, huh?”
    “Completely.”
    “So you know what I’m thinking right now?”
    “Something lascivious and inappropriate.”
    “I’m wounded. I’m thinking about the view,” he said, nodding toward the trees that lined the trail that was slowly climbing up the mountainside. “About the way the sun shines through the trees. How deep the green gets, to where it fades to near-black in the shadows. About the way the air smells, like wood and pine and clean. How’s that for predictable?”
    “Oh . . . um . . .”
    “Also, I’m thinking a little bit about how pretty and pink your lips are, and wondering if they taste as sweet as I think they might.”
    And just like that, every rational thought flooded out of her head. She wanted to say something about how he was completely predictable. And he was full of BS with all his lyrical waxing about the view. And something about misdirection, and deception.
    But she couldn’t think straight enough to form a coherent thought, because her brain was stalled out on the idea of him tasting her lips. Not just kissing them—
tasting
.
    Because that thought brought to mind a lot more than just lips against lips. And a lot more, even, than his tongue in her mouth, which she knew was a thing, personal experience or lack thereof notwithstanding. No, this made her think of a slow, sensual act. Of him savoring her flavor as his tongue slid along the line of her mouth.
    It made her ache inside. Made her want things she’d never wanted this bad.
    Yeah, she knew about desire, and being turned on. That was why she’d pursued virtual methods of relieving herself. But she didn’t know this. This deep need for touch. For connection. Not just for the image of a tongue on her skin, but for the feel of it.
    Hot, slick, and slow.
    She wondered, in that moment, how
he
would taste. How his skin would feel beneath her hands. How hard his muscles would feel. He would be different from her. He would be rough, and she knew that he had body hair.
    Gah. Why was that so hot? She’d never fancied herself a male body hair fan. But right now, she was fascinated by the memory of his chest hair. By how uniquely masculine it was. And she was suddenly obsessed by the realization that she’d never touched a man’s hairy chest.
    And that she needed to change that.
    Dear Lord, what had he done to her? What was he doing to her? She should hate him. Despise him. And in truth, she sort of did . . . when she remembered that he was Quinn Parker, the man who had ruined her brother’s life.
    But it was getting harder to remember that he was
that
Quinn Parker. Because the man that she talked to, the man she’d spent time with, didn’t seem like that man. There was a disconnect happening there, and she wasn’t sure why. Or how to stop it.
    The emotional element, the fact that she truly had a hard time disliking him when they were together, was honestly more disturbing than the attraction.
    And that was saying a lot, because the attraction was disturbing in the extreme.
    “You got quiet,” he said.
    “I’m ignoring you.”
    “Why?”
    “Because what am I supposed to say to that?”
    “You could tell me what a jerk I am. Predictably, you could tell me how predictable I am. Or, you could tell me that you’re a little curious too.”
    “I’m not,” she said.
Lies, all lies.
“Not even a little.”
    “I bet you’re blushing, baby.”
    “Don’t call me baby.”
    “I bet you’re blushing, Ms. Lark Mitchell, because you’re thinking about kissing me.”
    She sniffed. “You forced the image into my head.”
    “And?”
    “And?”
    “Did you like it?”
    She sputtered. “No.”
    “That only makes me determined to change your mind.”
    “You’re just looking for an excuse to get bit.”
    He stopped his horse in the path and turned to the side. “Well, I’d be lying if I said the idea didn’t intrigue me.”
    She pictured it