Surrender To A Playboy. Renee Roszel
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between them. “You made quick work of leaving the dishes,” she said.
He didn’t smile. She couldn’t tell if the serious expression was annoyance at her for moving away—some kind of playboy-ego thing—or if he was as weary as she, forced to sustain a fake smile from eleven in the morning until one in the afternoon. She didn’t know why he should be weary of it. Womanizers surely had well-exercised smile muscles.
“Was I supposed to wash the dishes?” he asked.
She took another step back and found herself against the wall. She flattened herself there. “Uh—no. Pauline does the dishes.”
He nodded, eyeing her quietly. Nervous flutterings pricked at her chest. She swallowed. Staring into warm, earth-brown eyes that had an uncanny ability to seem so—so earnest, was confusing and disorienting. She tried to look away but the hypnotic effect of his gaze short-circuited her ability, highly disconcerting.
She wasn’t accustomed to feeling this strange, agitated dichotomy about people. About men. But this man confused, frustrated and disturbed her. She disliked him with all her heart, but the restless disquiet that tightened her chest wasn’t dislike. She wished it were. It was an uneasiness without a name, and she didn’t like it.
Finally, her nerves frayed and her breathing labored, she demanded hoarsely, “What are you looking at?”
Her fretful question furrowed his brow. He peered at her intently for another pair of heartbeats, then startled her by placing the flats of his hands on the wall on either side of her face. “Your lips,” he murmured.
Mary didn’t have time to react, or even to be sure she’d heard him right before his lips touched hers, then covered her mouth, making her senses spin. She experienced a lurch inside her, an unwelcome flood of excitement. His kiss was warm, slow and surprisingly gentle. Delicious sensations spiraled through her, heating the blood in her veins and making her heart pound.
His kiss didn’t demand, it caressed. Didn’t dominate, it delighted. His lips coaxed, pleasuring in their exploration. She felt transported on a soft and airy cloud as she drank in the honeyed sweetness.
He touched nothing but her mouth, yet that contact was so powerful her limbs grew numb. She felt drugged, couldn’t move, though she wanted to lift her arms and encircle his neck, pull him close. She wanted to hold him, feel his heartbeat against her own. But she’d lost the capacity to do anything but quiver helplessly, thrilling as pleasure radiated through her.
“I’m sorry.” His lips stroked hers erotically as he made the guttural apology—a taunting termination to his kiss. He pushed away from the wall. As he distanced himself, Mary could only stare, too dazed and breathless to react.
“Forgive me—I…” His voice hoarse, he shook his head, as though not sure what to say.
In the waiting silence she stared at his set features, clamped jaw and dark, seductive eyes. Blood pounded unmercifully in her head, making it hard to hear, hard to think. She tried to work up some indignation, but she couldn’t. She’d never been kissed like that before. She’d never even dreamed of being kissed like that!
“It was wrong of me,” he ground out. Looking tormented, he dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’ve never done anything like that before?”
She might not be hearing too well at the moment and she might not have all her faculties in tip-top condition, but she heard his question. And he was right. She didn’t believe that. Telling her such a bold-faced lie, while managing to look irresistibly anguished and angry with himself, required a lot of talent—and, unquestionably, a great deal of experience!
Did this carousing Boston playboy think his “I’ve-never-done-anything-like-that-before” act would really work for a man with such a notorious reputation—no matter how skillfully played? Did he think because she was an unsophisticated, small town girl she’d be easy pickings?
The fact that she so obviously despised him made her a challenge. A challenge! To him, kissing her had been nothing but a careless and cruel game. To her, it had been a mind-blowing excursion into a realm of sensual perfection she wished she’d never encountered. Struggling to hold back tears she refused to let him see, she fought to conquer her anger and hurt.
Pushing away from the wall, she edged toward the entrance to the dining room and her escape to the kitchen. “Who…” she croaked. Clearing her throat, she forced steel into her words. “Who am I to question your honesty?” she jeered.
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