Unscripted Seduction - Chapter 11
Damian moved so fast Ama barely had time to breathe.
One second he was on the far side of the table, incandescent with temper and something even less stable, and the next his hand was around her waist, hard and hot through the fabric of her blouse, dragging her up out of the chair as though she weighed nothing at all.
‘Damian—’
‘Apparently,’ he bit out, lifting her onto the dining table with a force that made the coffee cups rattle, ‘you only stop talking when the subject is your own recklessness.’
Ama braced one hand behind her on the polished wood, pulse skidding. ‘That sounds suspiciously like an excuse.’
‘For what?’
His mouth was close enough now that the words brushed her lips.
‘For losing your mind.’
That did it.
Something in his face snapped into feral decision, and then his mouth was on hers.
There was nothing tentative or exploratory about it. It was a kiss with all the restraint stripped out of it, hot and punishing and desperate enough to feel like an argument carried onto flesh. His hand tightened at her waist as if to anchor her there while his mouth slanted harder over hers, shutting her up exactly as threatened.
Ama made a sound she would later deny to her grave.
Because God.
The kiss was devastating.
Not just because he was good at it, though he was, obscenely so. Not just because he tasted of black coffee and heat and the last of that exquisite meal. But because beneath the aggression was something far more dangerous: hunger held under such brutal control that feeling it break loose against her mouth was enough to make every nerve-ending flare.
She caught the front of his shirt in both fists.
He took advantage of the opening at once, deepening the kiss, and the decadent shock of it arrowed straight through her. This close, there was no mistaking the tension in him. The fury. The want. The arrogance of a man so used to containing himself that even his loss of control came out precise.
Her head tipped back as he kissed her again, slower now, but no less devastating, and thunder rolled closer as though the storm had moved inside with them.
When he finally lifted his mouth a fraction, both of them breathing harder, Ama stared at him and found her voice somewhere under the wreckage.
‘So this is your version of professionalism?’
His thumb shifted against her waist. ‘No.’
The word came out rough.
‘This,’ he added, eyes dropping briefly to her mouth before rising again, ‘is my version of self-defence.’
Ama’s lips tingled. Her whole body did. ‘You kiss all your production problems like that?’
‘Only the ones with catastrophic timing and a talent for provocation.’
She should’ve pushed him away. Instead, she heard herself say, ‘That sounded almost like a compliment.’
‘It wasn’t meant to.’
‘Pity.’
His jaw flexed. ‘You really do make it impossible not to—’
‘Not to what?’
But whatever answer he might have given vanished, because he kissed her again before the sentence could form.
And this one stole what breath she had left.
For a moment Ama forgot everything beyond the feel of him: the powerful line of his body bracketed between her knees, the drag of his hand at her waist, the stroke of his mouth turning less punishing and more ruinous, less about shutting her up and more about tasting her properly. She kissed him back without caution now, and the shift in him was immediate. A low sound escaped him, deep and involuntary, and satisfaction flickered through her even as want pooled hot and reckless inside her.
This was madness.
Exquisite, decadent, deeply unprofessional madness.
And still she could not stop.