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“Did Jonathan kiss you goodnight at the end of your date?” he asks softly.
“Are you serious right now?! So his mother could stand a few inches away from our faces, telling him how to do it? Why would you ask me that?”
He closes the few feet of distance between us, one of his arms snaking around my waist and the other coming up to slide around to the back of my neck. He yanks me against his body and I let out a gasp of surprise, my hands flying up between us to press against his chest.
“I’m asking you that because you’re right, I was a jerk. And I’ve wanted to kiss that mouth of yours ever since you said it. Just wanted to make sure I’m the only one who will be touching those lips tonight.”
He adds pressure to the back of my neck, and before I can ask him what the hell he’s doing, he’s pulled my face closer and his mouth is on mine. I let out another gasp of surprise against his lips, and Vincent takes that opportunity to slide his tongue into my mouth. As soon as it gently swirls around mine, I am completely, and utterly lost. My legs become jelly, and I clutch onto the material of his shirt.
After years and years of reading about first kisses in books, I now realize they are absolutely nothing like the real thing. Nothing I’ve ever experienced in my life compares to the way Vincent kisses me, soft and sweet, and yet hard and demanding at the same time. His arm tightens around my waist, holding me as close as possible as he deepens the kiss. Our mouths push and pull against each other, each swipe of his tongue against mine making me feel tingles all over my body, and want and need that I don’t even know what to do with.
Long before I’m ready for this kiss to end, Vincent slows it down, gently pulling my bottom lip through his teeth, which sends a tingle up my spine. He pulls his head away from mine and looks down at me, his hand moving from around the back of my neck to cup my cheek.
“I thought you didn’t trust strippers,” I whisper after a few seconds, when I finally remember how to speak.
“You’re not a stripper yet. And I trust those jackasses you’ve been going on dates with even less,” he replies, his thumb brushing back and forth against my cheek, making me lose focus again.
I give my head a slight shake before looking back up at him.
“So, does this mean you’re going to help me learn how to be sexy and flirty?” I ask hopefully.
I mean honestly, the guy can’t just kiss me like that out of the blue and think I’m going to walk away and forget it ever happened.
He lets out a sigh and I’m guessing if we weren’t still pressed together from thigh to chest, and if he weren’t still touching me, he’d be pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Christ . . . I guess I am.”
Chapter 16: Food, French, Eyelashes
“Flirt with me.”
I look up from the book I was reading to find Vincent standing in front of the couch with his arms crossed over his chest, staring down at me.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask in confusion, closing the book and setting it on the cushion next to me.
“You want lessons on how to be sexy and flirty. So, flirt with me. Show me what you’ve got.”
Oh, God. I’m not ready for this. I thought I was, but I kind of hoped these lessons would just be him kissing me a bunch more, not me having to perform like a monkey in the circus.
I uncurl my legs from underneath me and push myself up from the couch to stand in front of him, wiping my nervous, sweaty palms down the front of my sundress, trying to remember how all the heroines in the books I’ve read went about this flirting business.
Food. That’s the way to a man’s heart, right? I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.
“How about I go in the kitchen and whip you up something delicious? Maybe a nice, juicy steak with a baked potato and a side of green beans,” I tell him in a soft voice, hoping it’s coming out sexy and breathy and not like I’m having trouble breathing.
Which I am. Having trouble breathing, that is. Standing this close to Vincent always makes it hard for me to remember how to take air into my lungs.
One of his eyebrows quirks up in puzzlement as he looks down at me, and I quickly realize my mistake.
“Scratch that. No green beans. Green beans aren’t sexy,” I say with an uncomfortable laugh. “How about a steak, potato and . . . soufflé.”
