Taste Me. Carrie Alexander
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when Julian leaned even closer. If he tried to kiss her, she’d throw the congealing contents in his face.
He dipped a finger into the cup. Tasted it. “Very sweet.”
“We thickened grape juice.” Or, actually, added dollops of juice and food coloring to a concoction of sugar and cornstarch. It probably didn’t taste very good at all.
Julian dipped again. “Have you tried it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His glistening finger touched her lips, drawing slowly across them. First the bottom, then the upper, leaving them coated with the sugary paint. A hundred sensations rushed through Mia’s body, surging upward to gather at her mouth. Her tingling lips swelled with anticipation.
Instinctively, her tongue darted out to lick away the thick grape coating. She made herself stop, her tongue curled against her upper lip before she reluctantly drew it back in. Sugar melted into her taste buds, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was on other flavors to come: the taste of hot, hard lips, warm male skin, pungent, salty, sweet…deliciously sexy.
“I want to taste,” Julian said.
Her voice whispered, barely audible. “You—you already did.”
His face was so close to hers she could have counted his nonexistent pores. His breath was warm and sweetened with the tang of peppermint. She knew that he would taste good, but not because of the candy.
Their noses bumped. “I want to taste you.”
She swallowed. “What makes you think I’ll taste any different than your thousand other conquests?”
“Every woman is unique.”
“But this one doesn’t want to be just another note in the Julian Silk hit parade.” And yet she didn’t pull away when his cheek grazed hers. His fingertips touched under her chin, tilting it up; instead of shaking him off, she felt her lips pout and her lids drift shut.
“No worry. You, Mia Kerrigan, are an entire song.”
Big whoop, she thought in some dim, lazy part of her brain, where there was still a sliver of rationality that wasn’t dying for his kiss. It was as if he were a spider who’d wrapped her in silken, sticky strands. She could not move. She was at his mercy. But lucky for her…
Julian kissed her.
Mercy.
The man really knew how to kiss. Of course he did. Practice makes perfect.
She couldn’t rouse much disgust for that, not when his lips were covering hers with a sure, steady pressure that was somehow soft and hard at the same time, and easy, and deep, sending urgent signals to her fuzzy brain about wrapping her arms around him and pushing her breasts into his chest.
She held the cup of paint to the side and slid her free hand around to his back. He’d gripped her by the waist and was bending her under the force of his kiss. She arched—terribly, wonderfully conscious of the ache in her breasts as they rubbed against the rough denim of her overalls…the melting sensation between her thighs…
The prodding of a growing hard-on.
Whoa. The man was a quick draw. With a hefty six-shooter, by the feel of it.
“Umm,” Mia said.
Julian took the opportunity to slip his velvet tongue into her mouth. Grape and peppermint. Sugar and spice. Seduction and delusion.
“That’s enough.”
He lifted his head and said, “You’re wrong.” His lips were stained purple from hers. “It’s not enough.” With a wicked quirk of one black eyebrow, he reached for her again.
She plastered a hand to his chest and pushed. “Listen to me. I said no.”
He took his hands off her, straightening up. His eyes were dark and questioning, his hair ruffled, his tie a little askew. Impossibly attractive.
She quivered with frustration. Every inch of her skin was at war with her brain, the nerve endings screaming for appeasement. While she was attuned to her sexuality and usually listened to her body’s needs when a walking advertisement for sex appeal strolled into her life, this was one time where she intended to lead with her head to protect her heart. Given his reputation, Julian Silk was a pleasure she’d have to deny herself.
And she needed to do so in a way that his overblown ego really understood, so that there’d be no teasing, chasing or seducing in their future.
None? A pang of longing ran through Mia like a strummed guitar.
“You didn’t like the kiss?” Julian said, still cocky.
“The kiss was okay.”
“Just okay?”
She shrugged. “If I had to rate it…” That gave her an idea. Oh, she was mean. But it was a perfect pinprick of an idea, sure to let the air out of his balloon.
She thrust a couple of fingers into the cup of paint and swirled them through the purple goo. He smiled when she reached toward his face, as if he expected a reenactment of his smooth move and silken lines. He didn’t even seem to notice when purple drips splattered his tie.
She bypassed his mouth and started finger painting his forehead.
“Hey!” He pulled back. Her fingertips skidded.
“Hold still.”
He gripped her wrist. “What are you doing?”
She continued to stroke the paint over his skin, finishing quickly. “Settling your score.”
“What does that mean?” He let go of her and put a hand up to his brow.
“No, don’t smear it. Go and look in the mirror.”
Frowning quizzically, Julian brushed aside the backdrop screens and went to stand before a wall-hung mirror. He put his hands at his belt and stared at the numbers she’d painted on his brow. “Seventeen?” His eyes glinted. “That’s on a scale of one to ten, I take it?”
“Not exactly.” She pursed her lips, trying to keep from laughing. “You don’t recognize your own number?”
“I wore number twenty when I played soccer in school.”
“Your bachelor number,” she said.
He grew more quiet and less cocky. “Ah.”
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped off her fingers, the stickiness shredding the fine paper. “See, it’s like this. Maybe if you were number one, or at least in the top five…but seventeen? A girl’s got to set her standards higher than Bachelor Seventeen. I’m sure you understand.”
When he didn’t respond, she wadded the tissue in a tight fist. Maybe she’d been a little hard on him.
Julian turned to look at her with a bemused expression. “What did you do, memorize CG’s entire list of bachelors?”
Mia hesitated. Great. Now he’d think she was a gold digger. “I told you, I hear things.”
That was true, sort of. One of the art models she often hired for body-painting experiments had come in a while back with the bachelor issue of Celebrity Gossip, joking that her accounts were overdrawn and she needed to snare a rich husband. While Mia had painted the model’s skin, they’d flipped through the pages and laughed at the poses of the self-consciously sexy bachelors. There had been several pro athletes displaying their rippling muscles, an indistinguishable clump of Wall Street millionaires, one blue-collar guy for show, a couple of artists and a slew of actors—one of whom the model swore was as fruity as his Hanes briefs.
And then there was Julian. Number Seventeen. CEO of Silk Publications Ltd. and the brilliant mind behind the swift rise of Hard Candy, the glossy lifestyle magazine with a guy-power attitude. Since its inception, Hard Candy had stormed both the newsstands and pop culture trends with