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Glassy eyes met mine before dropping to my mouth.
My gut bottomed out.
My parents worked hard to instill manners and responsibility in me.
But right here, right now, I said fuck-all to the lessons in propriety and captured her smart mouth in a determined kiss.
Every goddamned sound faded away to the echo of our breath mingling between us and the drum of my heart pounding behind my ribs.
Her flavor? Bad decisions and mango Chapstick with a hint of my-life-will-never-be-the-same.
At the sound of the squeak from her throat, I squeezed my fingers over the column of her velvety neck, my thumb resting over the spot where her heartbeat raced under her skin.
As a true glutton for punishment, I nipped at that bottom lip before letting her go.
Forehead pressed to hers, I smiled at her dazed expression. “Now, eat the potato, Charlie.”
Her lips parted and I settled the fork on her tongue, never taking my gaze off her mouth. My chest squeezed and my jeans shrunk a couple sizes as her lips closed around the fork and she dragged her mouth back until the tines popped from between her plump lips.
Fuck my life.
I shifted and silently cursed myself.
Before dinner, sharing a room had been an annoyance.
But now… now two nights had danger written all over it.
And despite every warning flashing through my brain like a light machine at a rave, I didn’t have an ounce of self-preservation to stop the gruff words that came next.
“Good girl.”
CHAPTER4
Charlie
What the hell was that?
Okay, so I had a lapse in confidence. My mother made comments all the time and usually I let them roll off, but in the wake of the judgment from Nick’s mother, and Daniel and Mariah having a front-row seat, I just—I don’t know. My brain farted, okay?
Then her saint of a son stuffed me with potato. My potato, his potato, the communal potato.
And now I never wanted to feed myself again.
My feminism swooned and crumpled in a heap between us. When I tried to pick her up, she flitted off like Peter Pan’s elusive shadow.
The backstabbing little bitch.
I pushed through the door to our room, Nick strolling along behind me with his hands casually in his pockets like nothing had happened.
Like he didn’t just feed me.Feed me.
Like he hadn’t just, in spite of the food judgment and in the classiest way possible, made me want that fucking potato again. As though he hadn’t all but told me to lie back and relax my pretty little head about it because he lived to serve.
I couldn’t be the only one affected here. I refused. I would not be one of the many women falling over tits up for him.
No.
My gaze settled on my garment bag hanging casually in the closet courtesy of the concierge and a slow grin spread over my face. The answer to having the upper hand suddenly clear.
