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I don’t deny it. Not because it’s true—though it is—but because I’m not capable of following A to B right now. My thought train has been completely derailed.
‘But right now you wish that I would kiss you on those perfect pink lips of yours.’ His eyes spark to mine, daring me to contradict him, daring me to say that’s not what I want.
‘So?’
A short, sharp laugh of surprise breaks between us, and then his head lowers, his face only an inch from mine. ‘Come to Spain with me.’
It’s the last thing he says before he kisses me—the first kiss of my life and it’s with this man who, as he just pointed out, I despise.
I’ve seen enough movies to know what it’s like to be kissed—or at least I’ve imagined it. But this blows every expectation way out of the water.
My stomach is in knots, looping over and over. My body is paralysed and then on fire as he lifts one hand to the back of my head, his fingers driving through my hair, holding me where I am as his mouth ravages me—there is no other word for it. His lips separate mine, his tongue lashing me, demanding answers I can’t give, showing me his supremacy. I whimper into his mouth, a sound of acquiescence and surrender, a sound that hopes for more of this—him—so much more. The kiss drives down into my soul. I am in agony but an agony born of the knowledge that this kiss is not enough. My hands lift to his chest, pressing to his warmth, the rock-hard muscles just as tantalising as I’d imagined.
I curl my fingernails into the fabric o
f his shirt and he kisses me hard, his knee nudging my legs apart so I groan, the unexpected contact so unmistakably sexual, so hot, so raw, that I can’t think or speak. I am floating high above the planet, and nothing matters besides this.
Alarm bells clang in the back of my mind. I know this is wrong, so wrong, but I’m powerless to stop it, held hostage by a body that has been denied any form of sensual pleasure for far too long. As a teenager I read romance novels and, oh, how I loved them. Yet that zing was never for me in the real world. I’ve never met anyone with the ability to set my soul on fire.
But Santiago del Almodovár, with his charismatic devil-may-care attitude, is the very last word in hot and, like the many, many women who’ve no doubt come before me, I have no desire to resist him.
He pulls away, just enough to break the kiss, his eyes probing mine. ‘Spain. Come next week.’
‘Next week,’ I repeat, my mind not following.
‘Stay at the casino. Experience the type of building I want to bring to Marlsdoven.’
I nod, but it’s not an agreement. My brain is too fogged to think straight. Belatedly, logic starts to fall into place. ‘I can’t.’
‘Then stay somewhere else.’
‘I can’t come to Spain.’
He frowns. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it would...arouse suspicion? I don’t know.’
‘Suspicion of what?’
My cheeks flame. His smile is mocking and I feel about three feet tall. I shake my head in frustration, desperately trying to re-establish a modicum of control, to put some cool between us. But his leg is between mine, his body still so close, our faces separated by only an inch. My breath burns in my lungs and my nipples tingle against the fabric of my bra. My insides feel like mush and warm heat is spreading through my abdomen. I am lost.
‘It’s just not like me to go somewhere on the spur of the moment.’
‘This is not spur of the moment.’
‘A week is... My schedule...’
‘Do not make excuses.’
‘I—I’m not.’
He presses a finger to my lips then steps back, separating from me with apparent ease. He is not flustered. He is not breathing as though he’s just run a marathon. He looks at me with a steadiness I envy.
‘This is business. You have concerns about the development? So come and see what I do. Come and experience my casino and hotel. Eat at my world-class restaurants. See for yourself what I am proposing to build here.’
I bite down on my lip, because his suggestion actually makes a lot of sense. But it would involve being in Spain with Santiago and that kiss definitely complicates things.
‘I—have to think about it,’ I say, not quite meeting his eyes.
