I blinked.“Practice for what?”
“Section three of your little contract doesn't say anything about practicing our dates, kissing, and whatever else.”He leaned forward.“For this to work, we have to look like we actuallywanteach other.New couples can't get enough of each other.That means when I grab you, push you against a wall, and kiss the fuck out of you, it can't be… awkward.”
My pulse stuttered simply from the thought of that.A flash of heat came over me.The image of him trapping me to a wall, pressed against me, with nothing between us had my legs clenching together.
“I mean, for all I know, you’re a terrible kisser.”
“I do not need practice,” I said, lifting my chin as I squared the pages in my hands.“I am afabulouskisser.”
His grin sharpened like a blade sliding free of its sheath.“Sure you are.”
God, the smugness of this man.
“I am,” I snapped.
“Then prove it.”
I almost dropped the contract.“Excuse me?”
“We need a baseline, Bookie.”
My glare could have put him through the ground.“Call me that again and I’ll—”
“—prove it,” he repeated, slower, deeper, deliberately taunting.
Before I could assemble a rebuttal with any semblance of dignity, he pushed up from his chair and started toward me.No—stalkedtoward me.Measured, unhurried steps.Eyes locked onto mine with unsettling focus.
I tracked his every move.The slow, deliberate steps he was taking as he rounded the table.Every footfall tightened something low in my stomach.I forced my spine straight, jaw set, pretending I was unaffected even though every rational neuron in my brain hisseddanger, danger, danger.
“What are you doing?”I asked, hating the breathy edge to my voice.
He didn’t answer.
He reached me, close enough that I inhaled his cologne—burnt nutmeg, star anise, and something smoky-sweet that clung to his skin.It wrapped around me like a spell.Illegal.
Absolutely illegal.
With a flick of his wrist, he turned my chair fully toward him.My breath hitched.He didn’t look away once.Not when he braced his palms on either side of me.Not when he stepped between my knees.Not when he leaned in, slow and calculated, until his breath skimmed my upper lip.
His eyes dipped to my lips.
“Show me,” he murmured.
I froze.“What?”
He leaned in again, closing the space between us.I swallowed.Hard.“If you’re as good as you say you are, then show me,” he continued in that low, sensual tone.
“I—” I swallowed, trying—and failing—to steady my voice.“I don't have to prove anything to you.”
His gaze dropped to my lips again, making my pulse flutter.“You do if you want this to work.”
The room tilted.Or maybe it was just me.Something clearly wasn't right—maybe I was getting sick.It would explain the heat curling through my chest.I blamed poor ventilation.
It was a mistake to have him this close; a mistake to stare into his eyes and find those dark irises tainted with curiosity; a catastrophic mistake to look down at his lips and lick my own—his eyes darkened after doing that.
I should have pushed him away, but I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
