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He glances at me. “Stop it.”
“I’m not wriggling.”
“Stop staring at me like that or I’ll end up kissing you and then we’ll go over the waterfall, and it will all be your fault, but I’ll have to pretend it was mine because I’m a gentleman.”
I drop my gaze to his tie, which is also mostly soaking wet, and touch a finger to his silver tie pin with the tiny eagle on it. I’m glad he didn’t lose it in the water. “Did you ever meet your great-grandfather?”
“Once. He died when I was thirteen.” He steps over the last stone onto terra firma, then stands there for a moment, looking at me.
“Are you going to put me down?”
He purses his lips, looking at my mouth.
Oh my God. I despise him and everything he stands for. But I really, really want him to kiss me.
Instead, he slides his arm out from under my legs and lowers them, real slow, until my feet touch the floor, keeping one arm around my shoulders so I end up pressed up against him.
I place both hands on his chest. But as I feel his muscles through his wet shirt, my fingers curl rather than push him away.
He’s so tall, and muscular, and handsome, and he smells so good… There’s nobody at the commune like this. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever met a man in real life who’s as attractive as Orson.
He’s wealthy and experienced and accomplished and confident, borderline arrogant. It’s infuriating, but also extremely sexy. Some of the men at the commune wear suits to work, but they’re nothing like Orson’s. They’re not sophisticated or elegant or refined. They’re just normal working guys. They don’t have the nonchalant, cavalier, ‘I can do anything I like and you can’t touch me’ attitude that money brings.
I have to remind myself it’s the fact that he’s so different from other men which makes him seem so attractive to me. That doesn’t mean that if I delved under the surface, there’d be anything interesting at all. It’s like seeing a fantastic Pavlova on a table, a foot high with cream and fresh fruit, and you can’t wait to eat it, but when you do, you discover it’s ninety-nine percent air.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, amused, as he lifts a hand to unstick a strand of hair from my cheek.
“I’m comparing you to a Pavlova in my head.”
“Elegant as a ballet dancer?”
“APavlova notThePavlova.”
“Sweet and creamy?” His eyes dance.
“Full of air,” I say sarcastically, then gasp as he bends his head and touches his lips against my ear.
“You smell divine,” he murmurs, his hot breath fanning across my skin.
I tremble. “Get off me.”
“Just one kiss.” He brushes his lips along my jaw to my mouth.
I shiver. “Mr. Cavendish!”
“You know that turns me on, right?”
“Orson!” I squeal and push him, terrified I’ll give in.
He straightens, rolls his eyes, and releases me. I’m bitterly disappointed and incredibly relieved at the same time.
“Come on,” he says, leading the way down the bank. “I’ll walk you back to the commune.”
“I know the way.”
“I know you know the way. I just want to make sure you make it back without falling over again.”
“I don’t make a habit of falling over,” I say as I follow him down.