Page 14 of Hard Deal
“That goes without saying,” he said. “Not that anyone would be interested in them.”
“Then what’s with the indignant act? Are you trying to see what you can get out of me?” She huffed. “Don’t even answer that. I already know what you’re going to say.”
He grinned. But Mr. Sexy Mask Man wasn’t budging an inch. And speaking of inches...
Every little movement made her acutely aware of his rock-hard erection rubbing against her inner thigh. Holy smokes. Either the guy was hung like a donkey or he kept a zucchini in his pants. And thanks to prolonged involuntary celibacy, Imogen’s body was celebrating the sexual contact. How long had it been? Twelve months? More? She absolutely could have pulled free of his grip, but there wasn’t a cell in her body that wanted to.
That’s pathetic. You know that, right?
True. But it had been too smurfing long since she’d felt the spark of physical excitement, or that delicious throb of arousal between her legs. Sure, she was a serious, career-focused woman. And sure, she wasn’t going to jump into bed with any random guy for the sake of satisfying carnal need. But man, was this guy hitting all her hot buttons right now.
It wouldn’t hurt to revel in the friction a little more. She shifted her hips, brushing her sex along the hard ridge of him as subtly as she could. But she had to dent her bottom lip with her teeth to keep a moan of pleasure in. Every nerve ending in her body was sparking like New Year’s Eve fireworks.
“What if I gave you a kiss in exchange for my phone?” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. But it wasn’t a terrible idea—a kiss in exchange for walking away free of consequence.
A kiss she would most absolutely enjoy.
“A kiss, huh?” His smile turned wolfish. Hungry. “Sounds fair to me.”
“You have to let me go first. I don’t kiss men who’ve got a hold on me—literally or figuratively.”
The masked man immediately released her. He’d been holding her so gently there wasn’t even a sign that his fingers had been wrapped around her wrists. She’d be able to pretend it never happened. Though something told her she wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.
“Okay, ground rules for this kiss.” She sucked in a breath. “It’s a kiss, nothing more. You try to pin me down again and I’ll knee you where it hurts. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Adrenaline pumped through Imogen’s veins, giving her body a jittery, overstimulated feel. Everything was sensitive—from her nose sucking in the scent of his cologne mixed with the grass beneath them to her palms pressing against his muscled chest. Even the cotton beneath her fingertips was sublime.
“Do you want a countdown?” he asked. “I’ll start with three.”
She placed one hand by his head, the blades of grass tickling her skin. Music floated softly from the ball, the garden otherwise peaceful and quiet. Luckily for Imogen, no one could hear the blood fizzing in her veins.
“Two.”
Leaning forward, she angled her head over his, her lips parting in anticipation. There was a slight scent of alcohol on his breath, but it was richly pleasant. His lips were curved and full, and his jaw was freshly shaven and smooth.
“One.”
She closed the remaining distance and pressed against him, fusing them from the lips all the way down. Heat enveloped her as she melted into him, her thighs softening as she rested on her forearms. His tongue greeted hers, gently at first, probing and tentative. But it only took a second for the kiss to turn wild.
Then his hands were at her back—one sliding up to cup her head and the other sliding down to press her hard against him. The kiss was confident, possessive. She groaned into him, eyes fluttering. He flexed beneath her, rolling his hips up to meet the tender space between her legs. Rubbing...no, grinding. It was sensual and basal and more than a little dirty. The kind of kiss that a girl like her never seemed to get.
“Christ,” he muttered, his lips at her neck. Nipping. Scraping.
He was marking her and it was the hottest thing she’d ever experienced. He’d turned her body into a live flame and she was burning, consuming. Turning to ash.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he growled against her neck.
His words were like a drug. She revelled in the contradiction of it all—in the hard ridge of him pressing against her and the soft glide of his tongue over her skin. In the delicate brush of his lips and the firm grip of his hand sliding up her thigh. In his hard groan and subtle swish of her dress as he shoved it to one side. He was stripping her defences down, peeling back the protective layer she wore like permanent armour, and whipping her into a frenzy.
Imogen ached. Her whole body pulsed with electric energy and she wanted nothing more than to let him roll her onto her back so he could shove her skirt higher and bury himself between her legs.
A kiss. Nothing more.
She forced herself to pull back, terrified if she didn’t put the brakes on she’d be drunk on lust and unable to stop. Unable to resist turning a kiss into something more. Into everything more. Without a word, she slipped her hand into his jacket and pulled out her phone.
Rocking back on her heels, she grabbed a fistful of her dress and carefully got to her feet. She might have been happy to crash tackle the man, but she didn’t want to accidentally impale him with a heel. He didn’t move. His lips were slack, chest rising and falling with quickened breath.