Page 94 of My All American Girl

“Want some champagne?” I asked. “When in Rome…”

She grinned. “I think that sounds like a good idea.”

I picked up the phone and called for room service. I watched as she stood by the window and looked out over the city.

“Five minutes,” I told her.

I crossed the room in a few strides and pulled her into my arms. Our lips met in a slow, deep kiss, the kind that made my heart race and my mind go red with desire.

My hands moved to her waist, pulling her close. It was nothing short of a miracle I managed to keep my hands to myself this long.

“This dress is making me hot,” I said. “I’m debating if I want to keep looking at you in it or if I want to strip it off of you.”

She laughed softly. “What a conundrum. We’ll just have to see where the night takes us, won’t we?”

She reached up and pulled my head down to hers for another kiss. It was deep and slow and only served to make me hotter. Our bodies moved in a rhythm that was familiar yet new, as though we were kissing each other for the first time. Her hands found their way to the nape of my neck, playing with the strands of hair there and sending jolts of pleasure through me.

The knock came too soon. The champagne had arrived. We reluctantly pulled away from each other. I walked to the door and slipped the bellboy some money. I wasn’t entirely sure how much money I had given him, but I didn’t care.

I carried the ice bucket in and put it down. It only took a few seconds for me to open the bottle and pour us each a bubbling glass.

She eagerly took her glass and sipped it. “Do you know, I’ve only had champagne one other time?”

“Really?”

Then I remembered she was barely of legal drinking age. “How old are you?” I asked. “I know I’m not supposed to ask a woman what her age is, but I think in this case, I should know.”

She laughed softly. “I’m legal.”

“I know you’re legal, but just what are we dealing with?”

“I’m twenty-two,” she answered.

I grimaced, remembering myself at that age. “I thought it was something like that.”

“You think I’m too young?”

“No. Yes. I think your age is too young, but I don’t think you are too young.”

She gave me a funny look. “You do realize it’s one and the same.”

“Not quite. You’re wiser than your years.”

“And you’re thirty,” she said.

I nodded. “I am.”

I watched as she took a drink and waited to see how she was going to handle that information.

“You think I’m too old, don’t you?” I asked. “Because I think I’m too old for you.”

She grinned. “No. I mean, if I was a typical woman of my age, I would probably date men younger than you, but I don’t date a lot.”

“I’m going to sound like a caveman, but good. I like that. I don’t like the idea of you dating a lot of men. I’ve certainly seen the way your fellow officers look at you.”

She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that fluttered through the air. “You’re more possessive than a caveman. Is that because you’re older?”

I smiled at her. “Age has nothing to do with it. And I don’t think I’m possessive. Not really.”