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With a little snarl, my tiny hellcat unleashes on me. “Jameson Scott. I’ve never been so mad in my life. A talk? We have nothing to talk about unless you’re the one talking and you’re telling me you’re going to stay out of my business.”
She’s within arm’s reach. For me, anyway. I have the wingspan of an NBA player. I catch her, looping my palm around the back of her neck and slide my fingers up into her silky hair. “Not going to happen, beautiful. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure I’m about to be even farther inside your business. Deep, deep inside your business.”
I’ve never seen her eyes flare so hot. “You! You arrogant, pig headed, cocky–”
When I smash my lips against hers, she tries to bite me. I tip my head back and laugh. That’s when her fists come up and start to hammer against my chest, but I catch her wrists.
“Hold onto all that frustration, little one. Take that out on me in a bit. When we’re naked and can make a wreck out of the hotel bed.”
She freezes. And I take advantage of her dismay, or shock, or whatever the hell it is. I grab her ass and jerk her up against my rock-hard cock. “It drives me mad when you’re all feisty. Did you know that, Sprite?”
Color suffuses her cheeks, and I steal another kiss. “Now, get those sexy as sin shoes of yours on. We’ve got a date with a bottle of lube and a silk scarf.”
She gasps and stammers back when I let her hands go. I laugh harder this time. “You’re lying.”
I smack her butt. “I’m not. While I was chasing your ass all over Paris, I stumbled upon a sex shop. And I bought a few things.”
She swipes her shoes off the floor, and for a second, I wonder if she might use the lethal looking things as weapons against me. But then she puts them on, one by one, on her slender, sexy feet. “You were so sure you’d find me. AND that I’d have something to do with you… ”
Looping my arm around her, I lead her to the door. “Babe, when you know, you know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Waving a hand, Scotch easily hails a taxi. It’s late and the streets are much quieter now as we zip across Paris. Tucked in the back of the little cab. Deep in the dark interior with the city’s glittering lights flying by.
For some reason, I can’t pull myself away from his side.
It’s like I’ve been sucked into some kind of Scotch vortex and can’t get free.
Lord. How he makes me fume.
Almost as much as he makes me want.
It’s ridiculous. The way he turns me inside out. Upside down. Wrong side in. Argh!
But the man does it for me. Against all reason.
All that bulging muscle, long-limbed confidence, and the sense of humor that always rocks me, every damned time.
Oh, and did I mention the way he holds me?
Nope?
Never in my life has a man held me so strongly. So totally. He makes me feel protected… and L—
No. I can’t even think the L word.
It’s wrong. So wrong. I can’t L.
I just can’t. It’s not bred into me. Hell, it was frightened out of me.
Twisting my hand in his, I fret over this disturbing realization.
I’m not capable of L.
It never hit so hard before. It was always a vague hypothetical that was the fodder for paperback book covers in the grocery store aisle. For songs on the radio and movies that I was sure were somehow written to sell boxes of tissue.
But this. This is whole next level of terror.