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He leans back, getting comfortable once again. “Yes.”
“Oh.” I sip my drink from a pair of skinny cocktail straws and try not to look inconvenienced by this news. I was hoping for an answer like nah, they have no interest in me to assuage the bizarre feeling of inadequacy that cropped up out of nowhere. Since I can’t seem to shake it, I lick my lips and ask the other question rattling around in my brain. “Do you…often take girls like that home?”
“Often?” His eyes go overhead like he’s counting as heat climbs my neck. “Not too often.”
“Oh.”
He’s watching me closely now, so I take another sip of my drink and pretend not to care. One side of his mouth pulls slowly to one side, then the other follows the same path. What started as an impish smile is now a full-on tooth-baring grin.
He sets my drink aside and takes my hands, pulling me onto his lap. Then he turns me so I’m sitting sideways. I loop one of my arms around his neck and cross my legs over his. His hold is loose, one arm at my back, his other arm draped over my thighs.
“That’s better,” he decides. “What did I tell you about my bed at home?”
“You don’t sleep in it.”
“And?”
“That’s all I remember,” I lie.
“You asked if it was reserved for sex, and I told you I didn’t bring women there.”
“But you brought me.”
“I did.” He closes in on me, his nose nuzzling mine. “Jealous of those girls, Wildflower?”
“Why would I be jealous?” My voice catches when he licks my earlobe and then suckles it into his mouth. “You’re here with me.”
Smug satisfaction lingers on his handsome face as he lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “You don’t have to worry. Since I bumped into you at that fundraiser, I’ve been on…a break.”
“A break?” I cant one eyebrow.
“A break,” he repeats, his voice dipping. “Sweet buttercups like those,” he says of the circle of women below, “can’t stand up to a feisty wildflower like you.”
I know the cheesy compliment shouldn’t work, but I’m totally melting. That rogue sense of jealousy—fine, I was a smidge jealous—flickered away the moment he touched me. Claimed me.
“I’ve never liked being claimed,” I inform him while tracing the line of his beard to his neck.
“Not claiming you.” He applies the slightest pressure to my back. I bend and cover his mouth with mine. His kiss is slow and deliberate, the hand around my back climbing higher until it’s curved around my ribs, very close to my right breast. My tongue touches his, sliding warm and soft into his mouth. A spike of electricity zaps my spine and sends tingles shooting through my fingers—fingers now wrapped around the column of his neck.
He scoops my hair up and pushes it to one side. I’m lost in moss-green eyes sparkling with challenge. “You’re in a good position to claim me, though.”
So I am.
Properly motivated, I tilt his head back, lower my mouth to his throat, and take possession of what’s mine.
