“Chester,” I say again, partially to annoy him.
“He’s been in love with Kiara since we were sixteen.”
I file that piece of information away for later. “Then why...”
“He flirts with every pretty woman he sees because he’s too scared to ask her out.”
As he talks, his hand continues to stroke through my hair. I’m aware, suddenly, of how close we really are: nearly nose to nose, breath intermingling. He’s as strong and solid as a mountain, and he’s less than a foot away. It would take no effort at all to straddle his lap and find out just how well he fills out his jeans.
“Does that mean I’m a pretty woman?”
“You don’t need me to tell you that.”
“But maybe I want you to.”
His hand stills. “Poppy, you’re stunning.”
“Oh.” My breath quickens. Helplessly, I pull him closer.
He kisses me softly at first, smiling against my lips. Hand fisted in my hair, angling my head just where he wants it, he deepens the pressure. I tremble against him, aching for his hips to press against mine.
The first kiss was desperate. The second, questioning.
This one is tender. It makes my toes curl and my belly squirm. He kisses like I thought he would. No pretense. No teasing. No half-measures. Just him, taking control with each nip and stroke. A rush of desire floods me, sharpening my senses. I cling to him, breathingin his scent, reveling in each delicious scrape of his beard. My legs widen, making room for him to slot between them.
This is a bad idea. A monumentally bad idea. We can start with the fact he’s my sort-of boss and then run right down the list to the rift between him and my father.
“I mean it,” I say, wiggling away from him reluctantly. “You don’t need to pity fuck me. I don’t even want you. I just haven’t...”
I trail off, cheeks aflame. It sounds pathetic to admit that one kiss—now three kisses, each one better than the last—made me so weak for attention.
“Such a liar tonight.” He strokes the inside of my wrist. “It wouldn’t be a pity fuck. I’m just as hard up as you.”
My blush intensifies. “Stop being so crude.”
“You’re the one who keeps talking about fucking.” His thumb draws lazy circles over my pulse. “Let’s make a deal, Princess. Pretend we’re stranded on a desert island, just the two of us.”
I sternly tell my body to get off the bed. It refuses to listen. “What do you mean?”
“No strings. No expectations. We give each other what we need while we’re here, but nothing carries over.”
He keeps his voice light, but his smirk is a challenge. The world narrows to the point where he’s touching me. It’s a deliberate tease, a taste of what he can offer. My body yearns for me to say yes. His evergreen eyes bore into mine. Watching. Waiting.
“You look like a panther,” I blurt. My gaze drifts to his panther tattoo, still a little red from the burn I gave him. “Like you just dragged me back to your den.”
His eyes are endless green. So easy to get lost in. “And you like it.”
I wobble on the precipice, debating. This could go sideways quick, but it could also be the distraction I need before I return to New York. Jack and I are as different as night and day, so there’s no way we’d fall into the trap of complicated feelings.
I tug at him until he settles his body over mine. I let out a sigh at the muscular, masculine weight of him pushing me down onto the mattress. He leans down to kiss me again.
I put my hand on his chest. “Wait.”
Chapter 27
Cumin, Coriander
Poppy
