Unscripted Seduction - Chapter 13
Ama stayed where she was for one treacherous second after he stepped back, her pulse racing hard enough to make the room feel subtly off-centre.
The kiss still lived on her mouth.
Worse, it lived lower too, in the deep, hot, liquid place he had no business reaching this quickly. Her nipples tingled. Her waist still remembered the imprint of his hand. Every inch of her felt over-aware, over-lit, as though something inside her had been struck and was now vibrating with the aftershock.
This was absurd.
She’d flown to Ghana to stabilise a crisis for Obibini, not let the crisis pin her to a dining table and kiss every rational thought out of her head.
Unprofessional didn’t even begin to cover it.
And yet when Damian turned and walked out of the dining space, all dark arrogance and barely leashed temper, she slid off the table and followed him anyway.
Because of course she did.
The living room was dimmer now, the storm outside pressing insistently against the glass. Thunder still muttered overhead, as though the weather had settled into a mood rather than a tantrum.
Lamps cast warm islands of light over pale stone and low, expensive furniture. The whole room was the sort of place designed for elegant conversations and expensive seductions, which was deeply unfortunate given her current state.
Damian crossed to a sleek drinks cabinet and opened it without looking at her. ‘Drink?’
Ama let out a breath and aimed for cool. ‘Is that your peace offering?’
He glanced at her then, one brow lifting. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘Too late for that.’
Something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not quite amusement but not quite exasperation because he wouldn’t stoop to that. He poured two measures of an amber liquid anyway and handed one to her.
Their fingers brushed.
A tiny barely-there contact but it still sent a sharp line of sensation skittering through her.
Ama took the glass and wrapped both hands around it, more for discipline than desire, then crossed to the sofa and sat. He remained standing for a moment, drink in hand, all long lines and dangerous stillness, before finally taking the throne-like armchair opposite.
The distance between them was civilised. It felt anything but.
‘Well?’ he said at last, the word dry with impatience. ‘You’ve read it. Tell me what you think and try not to make this sound like you’re blowing smoke up my backside.’
Ama took a measured sip of whisky, let the slow burn steady her, then looked at him over the rim of the glass. ‘Hmm, doing that depends.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘On what?’
‘On whether your backside is as overpraised as the rest of you.’
The silence that followed was not silence at all. It was heat and awareness and the sudden, dangerous sense that if she said one more reckless thing he might be on her again, and the appalling truth that some buried, deeply unprofessional part of her wanted to find out.
His gaze moved over her slowly, stopping just a fraction too long at her mouth and her chest before returning to her eyes.
‘Careful,’ he said softly.
The word dragged over her skin like the promise of fingers.