Unscripted Seduction - Chapter 7
'What’s that supposed to mean?’
Damian’s gaze stayed on the windows, on the intensifying rain, the sea and sky dissolving into one dark, restless mass.
‘Very simple,’ he said. ‘I toss you out and let you drown in that torrent. Problem solved.’
He turned and walked away as though that settled the matter.
Ama followed instantly, heels sharp against the stone floor. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
Without looking back, he said, ‘I would.’
The lie should’ve come cleanly. It did not.
Because even as he said it, another thought arrived, hot and unwanted and indecently vivid. He would like to see her wet, though perhaps not in the manner currently suggested by the storm beating itself against the glass.
He would like to see that linen darken and cling. Would like to find out whether her composure held when her body was outlined for him in rain and temper and challenge.
Hell, he might even join her. Not as he’d done as a boy, running bareheaded into tropical downpours and laughing at the force of water striking his skin, marvelling at how a storm could feel like both violence and absolution at once.
No.
As a functioning adult.
The phrase returned with a private, vicious little edge because she’d thrown it at him first. As a functioning adult, he could think of any number of things two people might do to each other in a storm. Things dirtier than the rain. Things that began rough and ended clean only in the most technical sense.
The image arrived without permission.
Her pushed up against cool tile or warm skin or the wet gleam of glass. Her sharp, sexy mouth losing some of that devastating control. Her clothes ruined and his restraint with it.
He stopped so abruptly she nearly walked into him.
When he turned, she was closer than she had any right to be, close enough that he could catch the faintest trace of her perfume beneath the storm-charged air. Something elegant, expensive and quietly feminine. A blend of sweet and soft that suited her too well.
The silence between them thickened.
Her breathing had changed. Slightly, but enough.
So had his. He fiercely resisted the urge to lick his lips, to swallow. To do anything but clench his fists against the rampant hunger that charged from nowhere and made itself at home deep in his gut.
Then her phone buzzed, smashing through the room like a wrecking ball.
Ama blinked first, the spell snapping with visible irritation. She reached into her bag, glanced at the screen and then at him again. ‘I’m waiting for an answer.’
He could keep sparring with her. Keep shutting doors and throwing threats and pretending the script was nowhere near completion. But the storm wasn’t easing, and neither, apparently, was she. Which meant the fastest way to get her out of his house, out of his line of sight, and preferably out of his head, was to give her enough truth to satisfy the corporate instinct behind her eyes.