Model Behaviour. Tamara Morgan
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minutes, you should probably ignore it.”
She fell into a peal of mirth, unable to hold it back any longer. It was impossible to take Ben seriously for more than a few minutes at a time—in fact, that was a large part of his appeal. “Please tell me you didn’t actually think that would work.”
“No.” His lips twitched. “In fact, I’d have been disappointed if it did. I like that you’re making me work for this.”
Of course he did. His confession down there in the cab—that the first thing he noticed about her was her lack of googly-eyes—said it all. She was the only woman in the world who hadn’t fallen in a swoon at his feet, and he couldn’t stand it.
In fact, if she threw herself at him right now—if she gave in to stupid overtures like champagne and strawberries and a fancy room—he’d probably lose interest. Bored and disillusioned, he’d realize that nothing she had to offer was any different from what scores of other women had happily handed over in the past.
She stopped in the act of searching the linen cupboard for spare sheets to make up the couch. Of course. That was it. She could protest until she ran out of oxygen and still come nowhere near the amount of hot air Ben used in a single breath. You couldn’t argue with a brick wall.
But you could tear it down.
She closed the linen cupboard without extracting so much as a pillow and settled her back against the door. It wasn’t an aggressive stance, but if Ben had been paying attention, he would have noticed the shift. She was all liquid sensuality over here, the pose one she’d perfected years ago.
“You know, I think it’s been a whole forty-five minutes since you dropped your phone in my drink,” she said, her voice neutral. No need to give everything away all at once. “Aren’t you curious about what’s going on in Singapore right now? What if your secretary is frantically emailing you about an international emergency?”
He turned to her with a lifted finger, wagging it playfully. “Nice try. You can’t make me slip up that easily. She knows to call the hotel if there’s anything catastrophic.”
“Cheater. That renders number two null and void.”
“Untrue. The napkin doesn’t say anything about landlines. Cell phone only. I checked the fine print.”
“Then I’m adding a caveat. A lady’s prerogative.” No way was he derailing her with logic. Logic was for business meetings and contract negotiations. Not a mad-dash effort to preserve the most important relationship in her life.
“I would never deny a lady her prerogative,” Ben said.
That was Livvie’s cue. She moved to the side wall, where a vintage rotary phone sat in all its gold-leaf glory. Leaning over so that the short skirt of her black dress rode high, she yanked on the phone cord connecting them to the rest of the world.
“There.” She straightened and whipped the phone cord in a circle, bandying it like a feather boa. Lowering her voice, she added, “Now we’re all alone up here. Just two people enjoying a private evening together.”
“Yes, we are. It’s nice, isn’t it?” He looked around the room, seemingly satisfied with its painstaking elegance. “Since you nixed the idea of champagne and strawberries, do you want to play checkers?”
Was he missing the part where she was standing here with an enticing pout to her lips? This pout was worth a fortune. This pout was all she had. “Since when does the Montluxe have checkers?”
“It’s what I packed in your satchel. Checkers and a toothbrush. I hope you don’t mind. It has an oscillating head.”
She gave a strangled laugh and let the phone cord slide through her fingers. For a man intent on having sex with her, he was making it incredibly difficult to get to first base.
“What? I thought we might get bored. And oscillating head sounded too good to pass up.”
“If you wanted oscillating head, you could have just asked.” Without waiting for her comment to fully register, she drew close—close enough that he had to take a wide step back, his calves hitting the edge of the couch. The heat emanating off his body was a force of its own, raw with power and sex, and she had to swallow to remind herself that she was in charge here. She was seducing him, forcing him out on this high wire to see how he liked it.
It was dizzying and exhilarating up here, yes, but one misstep meant the loss of everything. Ben was too good a businessman—too aware of the value of calculated risks—not to recognize the folly of pushing forward.
“Checkers is a poor substitute for the other kinds of games we could play,” she cooed, infusing her tone with a throaty purr that would have done a phone-sex operator proud. She ran one hand up the inside of his tie, holding him firmly in place. From there, it would take one push of her hand on his chest to send him sprawling onto the cushions. One hitch of her skirt to straddle him. They were essentially two seconds and a leg lift away from full-on fornication. “I’m starting to think you might be onto something here.”
“Strip checkers, you mean?” he asked, amusement and desire deepening his voice. He had yet to do more than mold his body against hers, letting her lean in, but she could tell he wanted to do more. There was a tense strength to the way his muscles unfolded along hers, as if he could unleash his full potential at any moment. “Checkers role play? No—I’ve got it. You want to paint my body and make it the board.”
“No, Ben. I want us to fuck.”
“Wait—what?” An adorably perplexed frown moved across his face, and the tense strength of him snapped. She didn’t give him a chance to use it to push her away, taking advantage of his momentary imbalance to brush her lips against his instead.
It was a slight touch, more of an exchange of breath than a true kiss, but it was all she needed to convince her that every boundary she’d put up against this man was a necessary one. His lips were impossibly soft and easy to fall into, and she found herself straining for more. Her thighs knocked against his as she used him for balance, sparks of sensation springing to life as her bare legs scraped the fabric of his slacks.
Although he had yet to do much more than stand there in a state of stupefaction, she lifted a hand to the nape of his neck, allowing her fingers to curl through his hair. A tiny tug had his mouth angled to let her in, and she wedged her leg firmly between his. At those extra touches—her insistence in their embrace—he finally emitted a groan and began moving his lips in return.
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