Unscripted Seduction - Chapter 12
Damian had kissed women before.
Enough of them, in enough cities, under enough expensive and forgettable circumstances, to know exactly how desire worked and precisely how little meaning needed to be attached to it. Attraction was chemistry. Timing. Opportunity. Sometimes loneliness in better clothes.
This was that.
Had to be that.
Because it could not possibly be that the woman currently wrecking his self-control with her hands clenched in his shirt and her mouth opening under his had done anything more dangerous than catch him at a weak moment after too much isolation and not nearly enough sex.
Days had turned into weeks, weeks into months, and his life had narrowed to pages, deadlines, avoidance, insomnia and the occasional gourmet meal cooked for one in a house too large to hold so much silence. Of course he was reacting badly to an intelligent, beautiful woman who had turned up in expensive linen and attitude and called his script a masterpiece.
He had heard praise before.
Too much of it, usually from people eager to flatter genius into cooperation.
So why did it feel different from her?
Why did the word still reverberate somewhere under his skin with a force wholly disproportionate to a single opinion?
Masterpiece.
She had said it like accusation and revelation at once. Like she saw not only the work itself but the fight inside it, the parts of him he had bled onto the page and then tried to hide under craft.
That should have made him want distance.
Instead, he was kissing her like a man with no interest in wisdom.
Her mouth was clever even in surrender. Responsive without softness, as though she refused to yield anything she didn’t consciously choose to give.
He liked that more than he should. Liked the feel of her against him, the lift of her body on the table, the weight of her breast under his palm, the faint tremor she tried and failed to conceal when his hand pressed more firmly into her waist.
He wanted to pull her closer. Wanted to find out whether the composure she wore so beautifully would survive being properly undone.
The thought hit low and hard.
This was exactly why he should stop.
Instead, he kissed her once more, slower, deeper, and felt the answering shift in her body with enough clarity to make his shaft harden still and his own control strain. Her taste, her heat, the tiny sound she made when he changed the angle of the kiss. Every bit of it punched too hard. Too fast.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He broke the kiss abruptly and stepped back as though the distance might restore order.
Ama remained perched on the table, lips wet and flushed, eyes darkened, blouse slightly rumpled where his hand had gripped her. Beautiful. Provocative. Entirely too affected for his peace of mind.
Damian dragged a breath into his lungs and aimed for hauteur. ‘I’ve fed and tolerated you.’
His voice came out rougher than intended.
‘Maybe,’ he said, each word clipped now with effort, ‘you should do your job by telling me more about what you think about the script.’