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“You know her personally?”
What does that matter? “Do you need an introduction?”
“You do know her.” He smiles and brings his lips to mine.
I murmur through the kiss. “Why is that funny?”
“You’re different in private.” He runs his thumb over my shirt again. “More modest about your success, your ambition, your connections.”
“We met briefly at a summit for women entrepreneurs. It’s not a big deal.”
“See.”
“No, it’s not that.” I hook my arms around his neck. “Wait. Why are we talking?”
“You’re sexy when you blush.”
We’re still in the main room. We should move to the bedroom in case Lexi comes home soon. But then Lexi never gets home early from overnights. And I’m too on fire to move. “No, no, no. If you don’t have to talk, I don’t have to talk.”
“You don’t have to talk.” He undoes the bottom button of my blouse. “And I don’t have to do this.” He slips his hand under my shirt and drags his fingertips up my skin.
The soft brush of his touch ignites a fire inside me. It’s been less than twelve hours since we drove to the top of that hill, but it feels like it’s been a million years.
I need him to touch me here. Everywhere.
I need it in a way I’ve never needed anything.
He teases me with soft brushes of his hands. Higher and higher and higher and—
There.
His index finger brushes my nipple. Then the middle finger. The ring finger.
He moves to soft, slow circles.
I try to find some way to spur him on. “River—”
“Yeah?” He barely gets the words out. He wants this, too. Wants me, too.
“Are you really stooping to blackmail?”
“Blackmail?” He draws a circle around my nipple. “No. This is a negotiation.”
“You’re an artist.”
“And?”
“Why do you only speak in deals?”
He laughs. “People think artists are sensitive. Softhearted.” He looks at me, the picture of calm negotiation, as he draws circles around my tender skin, again and again.
My eyes flutter closed.
My fingers curl into his stomach.
“But the arts are the most cutthroat place in the world,” he says. “You wouldn’t last a day.”
“Uh-huh.”
