“You don’t even know what a hashtag is. That aside, I’m not talking aboutliterature, mushroom. I’m talking about the fine art of seducing a woman.”
“No, you’re not.We’renot. We’re not having this conversation.”
He folds his arms across his chest and scoffs, forearm muscles flexing, gods bedamned. “Don’t tell me you read romance for the plot.”
“That’s part of it, yes. I like a good story.”
“A good story. Really.”
“Absolutely! I want the whole emotional roller coaster, the character struggles, their day-to-day, all of it. Right up to the hard-won happy ending.That’swhat I read romance for.”
“Oh, ofcourse. The emotional roller coaster. The happy ending. The white dress and white picket fence and beautiful babies bouncing on the hip. But mostly…” He plucks the book from my hand and tosses it aside. “You read it for the smut. Stand up.”
“Excuse me?” I sputter.
“Stand up and let me show you something.” He’s already on his feet, hand outstretched, leaving me little choice in the matter, what with that stern British daddy vibe that’s making me feel some type of way, new kinks unlocked, holy freakingHell.
I take his hand and rise from the couch, knees wobbly but resolve steely.
Until he steps closer. And closer. So close I can see every fleck of gold in his spilled-tea eyes.
Then, in a sultry whisper that has me quivering like poor ol’ Savannah in the hayloft, he says, “The key to seducing a woman lies not in overt sexual prowess, although that certainly helps things along.” He slides his hands into my hair and cradles the back of my head, his lips so close to mine I can’t even breathe. “It lies in seducing her mind.”
“You… have a point, but…” I lower my gaze, unable to match his intensity.Goddess, why does his touch feel so good?
“It is said that some women can climax with words alone,” he whispers. “No physical contact of the genitals whatsoever.”
Okay, way to ruin the mood.
“Excuse me, but no woman is getting anywherenearthe big O when her lover uses words like ‘climax’ and ‘genitals.’ You sound like a doctor. And not the hot one, but the bumbling sidekick who barely passed the boards.”
I’m good with the words climax and genitals!the Downtown Pep Squad pipes up.Especially when he says it in British! In fact, I’m pretty sure if he says it again, I’m going to climax right now!
“Yet the point remains.” Devlin lowers his mouth to the side of my neck, breath stirring the fine hairs on my skin. Every cell in my body is working in tandem to hold back the ensuing shiver, to keep me from melting into a puddle on the floor.
“A proper lover knows better than to go in for the kill too quickly.” His dark whisper is a danger, a drug, another weapon in the Devil’s bottomless arsenal that strips me bare as he drags his mouth to my ear. “A proper lover makes certain his partner knows just how exquisite she is, first and foremost. How utterlyenchantedhe is by the softness of her skin, the warmth of her touch, the light in her eyes. That the barest scent of her desire drives himmadwith wanting, and if he doesn’t claim her right this veryinstant…”
Without warning, he spins me around and pins me face-forward against the wall, wrists bound above my head in his powerful grip, his body pressed against my backside, my heart thundering wildly, breath jagged and desperate.
“—and then he loves her the only way he knows how,” he teases, lips feathering the shell of my ear. “Furiously and without restraint, a wild storm breaking upon the shores of her body, the desperate tide of him rising higher and higher, until… Well. Until it does whatever it does, I suppose.”
Devlin releases me and returns to the couch, plopping back onto his seat with the cats like this is all just a friendly game of charades, not some freaking multi-dimensional out-of-body experience that leaves me riled up and ready to rock.
“That’s how I would do it, anyway.” He picks up the cast-aside book, opens to our page. “Though, as we’ve already demonstrated, there’s no accounting for taste. Shall we return to the hayloft, then?”
My mouth goes completely dry, hands and feet tingling with the same sensation I get when I’m having a panic attack. Which is notexactlythe kind of attack I’m having right now, but something is definitely attacking me from the inside out, the deep depths, as we’ve mentioned, because there, sitting on my couch in his white shirt and suit pants, Devlin is…
Hard as stone.
Oh, gray sweatpants. You ain’t got nothin’ on a black suit…
I gape. Devlin notices. And he glances down at his lap, then at me, and says, “So your feline familiars are allowed to appreciate a romance novel, but I can’t? Who’s being judgy now, miss judgy pants?”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t appreciate it. Just that… maybe… you could do your appreciating in private? Where I can’t see it? You, I mean. Where I can’t seeyou.” I swallow hard. Force myself to look out the window. To watch the rain running down the glass, very soothing, yes, exactly what I need. Soothing little raindrops, all in a row…
“Distracting you, am I?” he asks.
When I don’t respond—which is a thing I literally can’t do because my face is on fire and my throat has closed up and I’m seeing stars from lack of oxygen to the brain—Devlin laughs and says, “I always forget how uncomfortable humans get over basic biological functions. Ah, well. I’d offer to cover up with a blanket, but what’s the point? No puttingthatgenie back in the bottle. Anyway, back to Lennox and Savannah. Where were we?”
