The Trouble With Mistletoe
“You want to come upstairs, Willa?”
What she wanted was to put her hands back on his chest now that she knew it was as hard as it looked. Instead she gripped either side of her seat with white knuckles. “Of course not.”
“I think you do. I think you want something else too.”
“What I want,” she said as coolly as she could, “is dinner as promised.”
“Liar,” he chided softly.
“Well that’s just rude, calling your date a liar.”
“So it is a date.” His tone was very male and very smug. It should’ve pissed her off but instead it did something hot and erotic to her insides.
Clearly knowing it, he smiled at her and then dragged his teeth over his lower lip as he contemplated her.
Gah. She wanted to do that. And she wanted to do more too. She wanted him shockingly badly and suddenly she couldn’t remember why she shouldn’t. She tried to access her thought processes on the subject but her brain hiccupped and froze. Which surely was the only reason she let go of the death grip on her seat, slid her fingers into his hair, and . . . brushed her mouth over his.
He didn’t move, not a single muscle, but when she pulled back, his eyes had gone dark as night, piercing her with their intensity.
“Don’t read that the wrong way,” she whispered.
“Is there a wrong way to take it when a beautiful woman kisses you?”