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“That’s not what I meant.” Clara rubbed her throat with an unsteady hand.
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t have a sob story. I like what I do and a lot of other people like what I do. In fact . . .” Even when they were sitting down, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.
Her sooty lashes lowered. It wasn’t fair that she could make bashful look sexy.
“I think you like what I do.” He returned his gaze to her nipples with obvious innuendo.
“Excuse me.” She put a hand on his shoulder and gave a little shove. “I’ll have you know that I was watching that video through a very professional, even artistic, lens.”
He had to hand it to her, a lesser woman would never have managed to convey righteous indignation in that nightgown.
But all the gumption in the world hadn’t saved her from falling into his trap. “Great, so what did you think?”
“Of what?” The sounds she emitted amounted to more squeaks than words.
He dropped his hands to his lap, intentionally drawing her eyes below his waistline. “You know what.”
Her throat worked as she gulped. Stray locks of her dark hair clung to the damp skin of her neck.
“Well, I thought the performance seemed very . . . well executed. I can see how your methods would prove effective.” Her face filled with alarm. “Not that I was affected. Because, you know, that would be inappropriate.” Clara’s eyes shot nervously to his forearms and then back to the carpet, her clear refuge.
What was it with women and forearms?
He couldn’t resist flexing them by making a fist. “Ahh, yes. Well, I’m looking for strictly professional feedback.”
“Like constructive criticism?”
“I’m always looking to improve my craft,” he said, his voice just serious enough that she would have difficulty discerning whether he meant the request. He draped his arm across the back of the sofa. “And you seem like the kind of girl who would take notes.”
chapter eight
CLARA CONSIDERED HOW much of the truth to withhold from the infuriatingly confident man sitting next to her. He’d already imprisoned her in this conversation. She ached to withhold any further satisfaction. Part of her wanted to tell Josh she found what he did degrading, if only to wipe the smirk from his mouth. She envisioned lifting up her nose to show him how far beneath her she found pornography as both an industry and an art form.
But she couldn’t do it.
Whether she wanted to admit it or not, that video had achieved its desired ends.
She’d watched him have objectively great sex with a beautiful woman, and it had made her so hot her skin should have burst into flames.
Not because she wanted to sleep with him. No. It was because the words that best described her love life were tepid and careful.
In contrast, Josh had given the woman in that video pleasure that seemed shockingly wild and vivid. Now he wanted her to provide notes on his craft or, heaven forbid, his form? Lust still swarmed her brain like raging bees. She could barely think over the buzzing in her ears.
Sure, this was probably a mistake. Nothing more than a way for Josh to call her out on paying too much attention to a video of him having sex. But the lifelong student in her couldn’t pass up an opportunity for firsthand research.
The silence in the living room swelled, waiting for her reply. Finally, she let fly the words she’d held hidden under her tongue since he walked into the room. “You do that mouth thing a lot.”
His lips formed a perfect O—clearly, he had anticipated a different piece of feedback. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
Clara desperately drew air past the vise around her throat. You’re a grown woman. You can do this. “Oral sex,” she said, taking great pains not to whisper it.
“On her or on me?”
“On her.” If the floor could open up and swallow her right about now, she would really appreciate it.
“And?” The blank look on his face said he was trying to follow the situation but not grasping her point.
“I found all your . . .” She prepped the next word on her tongue. “. . . mouth attention surprising.”
