The Party Dare. Anne Oliver
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her lashes. Think cool, think cool.
He hadn’t moved. He shook his head. ‘What was that?’
She shrugged, the laugh catching in her throat. ‘A whim. I was curious.’
Now she was even more curious. What would a full-on sensual assault be like? Trying for casual, she picked up her brush, ran it through her hair. Her arm felt strangely weak, as if she were coming down with a fever. ‘What changed your mind?’
‘I finished sooner than I expected.’
‘Ah.’ She nodded wisely. ‘Party for one not satisfying, huh?’
‘The party hasn’t started yet.’ His voice took on a persuasive tone that brushed over her skin like velvet. ‘Nice.’
He meant her slinky dress—at least she thought he did—except his gaze seemed to skim only the bare thighs its short hem didn’t cover, sending goosebumps over her flesh.
‘Nice of you to notice.’
Setting her brush down, she turned from his reflection to look at the real man. And reminded herself to breathe. He seemed to draw something from her that she’d never known she had. Was she out of her depth with this one? ‘Do you think I’m going to abandon my hostess responsibilities for a frolic across the sheets with you?’
He raised a dark brow. ‘Are you?’
The scary thing was she had a feeling that was exactly what was going to happen. She loved playing the catch-me-if-you-can game almost as much as reaching the winning post but this time she seemed to be tied to the starting gate. ‘You’ve got a high opinion of yourself, haven’t you?’ She wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
He nodded. ‘I’m comfortable with who I am. How about you?’
‘At the moment I’m feeling pretty relaxed.’ Not exactly answering his question. She smiled to hide the fact she was strung out like wet washing in the wind.
He closed the door, muting the sound of the party below. Taking his time, he peeled the foil off the top of the bottle, unscrewed the cap and splashed some wine into the bottom of the glasses. ‘Do you like a good shiraz?’
‘I do. I should—’
‘This one’s my favourite. I didn’t expect to find it here.’
‘Me either,’ she murmured. She could delay her hostess duties a moment. Or possibly the rest of her life.
She leaned her backside against her dressing table for support as he stopped in front of her, both glasses in one large hand. The other he wrapped around the back of her neck, holding her skull in such a way so she was looking right at him. Up close his eyes were pewter flecked with cobalt. He smelled of fresh rain on cotton, shampoo and soap. She clutched the edge of the dressing table on either side of her hips. If she touched him, she might not be responsible for her actions, and, with him, she very much needed to be responsible.
His head dipped, his mouth hovered. ‘I’ll admit to a little curiosity of my own,’ he murmured and touched his lips to hers.
Firm and warm. They moved gently; testing, teasing, tasting. Taking his time, showing her how devastating one long, drawn-out kiss could be. How a woman could be seduced into forgetting her own identity. Her fingers tightened on the wood behind her. She could feel his body heat radiating between them and her fingers itched to explore but still she didn’t touch him.
She’d never been one for slow. This leisurely pace was new. Mesmerising. As her body melted against his her blood grew sluggish and flowed like clotted cream through her veins.
Even the sound of the rain on her window faded and all she was aware of were his fingers massaging the back of her scalp, his lips on hers, and the rich, dark promise of more. She yearned. When he raised his head, she bit back a sigh.
He lifted his hand from the back of her skull to trace a path just once down the side of her face, fingertips leaving a trail of tingling nerve endings. ‘Breanna.’ He slid his thumb over her bottom lip then took a step back.
He looked bemused, she thought. The way she felt right now. ‘That was...that’s a lot of curiosity.’
He reached out, flicked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Unlike your “whim”, I enjoy taking my time.’
‘I noticed,’ she said, feeling as if she were floating a few centimetres off the floor. She struggled to rein in her far-flung thoughts and ground herself. ‘There are at least fifty people downstairs who’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘They seem a pretty self-sufficient lot. Try this.’ He handed her a glass.
She took it with nerveless fingers and sipped, letting the rich mellowness caress the inside of her mouth. ‘Mmm.’
He drank too. ‘I doubt they’ll notice you’re missing for a little while.’
She sipped again. ‘Someone could turn up here at any moment.’ Bron, for instance.
‘Does that bother you?’
‘No.’ It should, it really should but right now she couldn’t bring herself to care. ‘You’re bad.’
He grinned, as if seducing women at their own parties was a regular pastime, and raised his glass. ‘Your opinion?’
‘Of the wine? Or the kiss?’
He watched her over the rim. ‘We both know we enjoyed the kiss.’
He had that right and the knowledge shimmered through her. ‘The wine’s beautiful—smooth and rich.’ Like you. Worth every cent he’d paid? Probably not. Still, she wasn’t complaining and sipped some more.
But she’d not eaten since lunch and the wine’s potency on an empty stomach spread through her limbs like an approaching anaesthetic. Her senses were filled with him, her mind reeling and already cloudy. Intoxication was a definite possibility and one she couldn’t afford.
She set her glass on the dressing table. ‘I’ll just slip downstairs to check everything’s okay and get us a dip and some of those crackers I promised you.’
* * *
Leo watched her slick a new layer of gloss over those luscious-tasting lips. He couldn’t wait to muss her up some more. He wanted to see the real Brie first thing in the morning with no make-up and satisfied with a long, slow night of sex.
As if reading his thoughts, she grinned at him in the mirror. ‘I’ll be right back.’
As she crossed the plush sage carpet his eyes followed the sway of orange silk-clad hips and he imagined how those barely covered, shapely long legs would feel entwined with his.
Man, oh, man, he needed to sit down. He sank into a cream wicker rocking chair in the corner to wait for his body’s response to partially subside—as if that were remotely possible. Not with Brie’s midnight temptation fragrance permeating every corner of the room. The tantalising taste of her lips on his own. The girl knew how to kiss and no doubt a good deal more.
Taking a long, slow swallow of his drink, he focused on the way it slid warm and satisfying down his throat rather than the unsatisfying ache in his groin.
For his next distraction, he turned his attention to her bedroom. He’d expected something bold and out there like the woman herself but her room was feminine and whimsically romantic—if you ignored the shamble of clothes, paperbacks and boxes scattered every which way. Deep green walls showcased John Waterhouse prints—The Lady of Shalott, Narcissus and The Awakening of Adonis.
On the queen-size bed lay a heap of flamboyant outfits that looked as if they’d been tried on then hastily discarded. Beneath, he glimpsed a rose-coloured floral quilt. He stared in growing consternation. Was this the room she expected him to sleep in while he stayed here? This bed? Surely she had other rooms and other beds?
He ran a perplexed hand over his hair. He