Page 46 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“I meant say the word if you decide you want me on your side of the bed.” He inched his body forward until they were barely a hair apart, what little space there was between them charged with sexual tension. “Or, better yet, just slide over to mine. I promise I won’t bite, unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

She brushed his hand aside and pushed him away. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Teasing me.” She sank down onto the bed. “It’s not fair.”

“What makes you think I’m teasing?” The mattress dipped as he sat beside her. “I’m attracted to you. And if I’m not mistaken, you’re not immune to me. There’s nothing stopping us from having what we both want.”

He shifted his weight to move closer, and his robe parted, revealing his lightly furred chest. Damn. She’d forgotten—or pushed to the back of her brain—how scantily clad he was. How scantily clad they both were.

She crossed her legs and pulled the lapels of her robe together. “And what exactly is that?”

“This.” He traced her lips with his thumb. They parted on a sigh that echoed like a gust of wind in the otherwise quiet room.

“And this.” His hand roamed lower, down her neck to the swell of her breasts, and her breath hitched.

“And possibly this.” He followed his fingers with his mouth, leaving a wet trail to the soft spot where her neck met her collarbone.

Well, when he put it that way—

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, encouraging his erotic exploration. After all she’d been through recently, didn’t she deserve to have a little fun? That vacation fling she’d been dreaming about. A pleasant, passing diversion until it was time for her to get on a plane and return to reality.

His mouth drew back, and she whimpered a protest at its absence. She opened her eyes to find his face looming above hers, his gaze locked on her lips, which suddenly seemed as dry as the Sahara. Her tongue stole out to moisten them, eliciting a loud, ragged breath from Dante.

“You have to say the words. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us. You have to tell me what you want.”

“You, dammit. I want you,” she practically shouted, her chest heaving. “There. I said it. Are you happy?”

The smug bastard had the nerve to laugh. “Very.”

“Good. Now kiss me before I spontaneously combust.”

With a lazy smile, he wound his fingers into her hair and pulled her in for the promised kiss. Their lips connected, and her brain went hazy for a second before the sensations started to register—the softness of his lips on hers, the sureness with which he held her, the hand at the back of her head warm and firm. The sweetness of thepanna cottalingering on his tongue.

After far too short a time, he pulled away again and peered at her.

“Why did you stop?”

He clucked that devilish tongue that only a heartbeat ago had her desperate and panting. “Patience. Good things come to those who wait. And even better things come to those who wait longer.”

“Better?” She liked the sound of that.

He worked one finger into the knot at her waist, loosening it. “I almost wish you had more clothes on.”

“Why?”

“So I could have the pleasure of peeling them off you, piece by agonizing piece.” He untied the knot completely, letting her belt fall away and her robe part. “But I suppose this will have to do for now.”

She fought the knee-jerk urge to cover herself and let him have his fill, his gaze skimming the curves and dips of her body. She imagined his hands and mouth following suit, tightening her nipples into exquisitely painful points and vaulting her pulse into hyperdrive.

“Are you going to sit there and stare at me all night or do something about that?” She pointed to his lap, where the head of his erection poked out from between the folds of his robe.

He laughed again, the thick, throaty sound sending sparks skittering up and down her spine. “There’s that impatience again. So American. Always rushing from one thing to the next, never taking time to stop and smell the lilies.”

“Don’t you mean roses?” she asked, surprised her lust-addled brain cells were functional enough for her to know one bloom from another.

“Lilies are the national flower of Italy.” He traced a line with his finger along the freckles scattered at the top of her chest, like an erotic game of connect the dots. “Elegant. Stylish. Sophisticated. Like a fine wine. Or a fine woman.”