Chapter 2

• Annabelle looked up, quickly registering the shock of dark hair spiked haphazardly, bronzed skin, the slight shadow of stubble... and then she met his eyes. A jolt of electricity—an almost palpable energy—crackled when she met those guarded, translucent green irises. Surprise flashed through them fleetingly, but the intrigue and intensity with which he regarded her were unnerving, despite her body’s immediate reaction to him. Needs and desires long forgotten inundated her with this one, simple meeting of eyes.
• How could this man she’d never met make her forget the panic and desperation she felt only moments before?
• She made the mistake of breaking eye contact and glanced down at his mouth. Full, sculpted lips pursed as he regarded her intently, and then very slowly, they spread into a lopsided, roguish grin.
• Oh, how she wanted that mouth on her—anywhere and everywhere all at once. What in the hell was she thinking? This man was way out of her league. Like light years away out of her league.
• Annabelle drew her gaze back up to see amusement brimming in his eyes as if he knew her thoughts. She could feel a flush slowly spread over her face as embarrassment for both her predicament and her salacious thoughts registered in her brain. She tightened her grip around muscular biceps as she lowered her gaze to avoid his obvious assessment and tried to regain her composure.
• Bringing her feet back under her, she accidentally stumbled further into him, her balance compromised by her inexperience with such sky-high heels. She jumped back from him as her breasts brushed against his firm chest, setting her nerve endings ablaze. Tiny detonations of desire tickled deep in her belly.
• “Oh … um … I’m so sorry.” Annabelle held her hands up in a flustered apology. From a step back, the man was even more disarming now that she was able to drink in the whole length of him. Imperfectly perfect and sexy as hell with a smirk suggesting arrogance and an air exuding trouble.
• He raised an eyebrow, noticing her slow perusal of him. “No apologies needed,” he responded in a cultured rasp of a voice with just a hint of edge. A voice evoking images of both rebellion and sex in the same breath. “I’m used to women falling at my feet.”
• Annabelle's head snapped up at the conceit in his comment. She could only hope he was joking, but his enigmatic expression gave nothing away. He watched her response, bemusement in his eyes, and that cocksure smile widened, causing a single dimple to deepen in his defined jaw.
• Despite having taken a step back, she was still close to him. Too close for her to gather her wits, but close enough for her to feel his breath feathering over her cheek. She could smell the clean scent of soap mixed with his subtle, earthy cologne.
• “Thanks. Thank you,” she responded breathlessly. She saw the muscle in his clenched jaw pulse as he regarded her. Why was this man making her nervous and feeling like she had to justify her situation? “The-the door shut behind me. It jammed. I panicked—”
• “Are you okay? Miss—?”
• Her response faltered as his hand cupped the back of her neck, pulling her closer and yet holding her still. He ran his free hand up and down her bare arm in what she assumed was an attempt to make sure that she wasn’t physically harmed. Her body registered the trail of sparks his fingertips blazed on her naked flesh while her mind became acutely aware that his sensuous mouth was only a whisper away from hers. Her lips parted and her breath hitched as he moved his hand up the line of her neck and then used the back of it to run his knuckles softly down her cheek.
• She has no time to register the confusion mingled with a heavy dose of desire that surges through her when she hears him mutter, “Oh fuck it,” seconds before his mouth is on hers. She gasps in utter shock, her lips parting a fraction as his mouth absorbs the sound, giving him an opening to caress his tongue over her lips and dart slowly between them.
• Annabelle pushes her hands against his chest, trying to resist the uninvited kiss from this complete stranger. Trying to do what logic tells her is right. Trying to deny what her body is telling her it really wants. To suppress the need to take as he is taking. To abandon inhibition and let herself enjoy this one, random moment with him.
• Common sense wins her internal feud between lust and prudence, and she manages to push him back a fraction. His mouth breaks from hers, their breaths panting over each other’s faces. His eyes, wild with lust, hold steady to hers. She finds it hard to ignore the seed of desire that’s blooming deep in her belly.
• The vehement protest that’s screaming in her mind dies silently on her lips as she succumbs to the notion that she wants this kiss. She wants to feel what she has been so devoid of—what she has purposely denied herself. She wants to allow herself this one moment in time where she acts recklessly and has “that kiss”—the one that books are written about, love is found in, and virtue is lost with. For deep down in the depths of her soul, she knows this kiss will be that for her.
• “Decide, sweetheart,” he commands. “A man only has so much restraint.”
• His warning, the insane notion that simple Annabelle can make a man like him lose control, bewilders her, confusing her thoughts so that the denial on her tongue never crosses her lips. He takes advantage of her silence, a lascivious smile curling the corners of his mouth before tightening the hold he has on the nape of her neck. From one breath to the next, he crushes his mouth to hers. Probing. Tasting. Demanding.
• Her resistance is futile and lasts only seconds before she surrenders to him. She instinctively moves her hands over the rasp of his unshaven jaw to the back of his neck and tugs her fingers in the hair that curls over the top of his collar. A low moan comes from the back of his throat, bolstering her confidence, allowing her to part her lips and take more of him. Her tongue entwines and dances intimately with his. A slow, seductive ballet highlighted with breathy moans and panted whimpers.
• He tastes of whiskey. His confidence exudes rebellion. His body evokes a straight punch of lust to her core. A heady combination hinting he’s a bad boy that this good girl should stay clear of. His urgency and adept skill hint at what could come. Images flash through her mind of back-arching, toe-pointing, sheet-gripping passion that no doubt would be as dominating as his kiss.
• Despite her submission, she knows this is wrong. She can hear her conscience telling her to stop. That she doesn’t do these kinds of things. That she’s not that kind of girl. That she’s betraying Max with each continuing caress.
• But God, it feels so incredibly good. She buries all rationality under the surmounting desire that rages through her every nerve. Her every breath.
• His fingers stroke the back of her neck while his other travels down to her hip, igniting sparks with every touch. He splays his hand on her lower back and presses her into him. Laying claim to her
• Laying claim to me. She can feel his erection thickening against her midsection, sending an electric charge to her. Making her damp with need and desire. His leg slightly shifts and presses between hers, pressuring the apex of her thighs and creating an intense ache of pleasure. She push further into him, softly mewling as she crave for more.
• She is drowning in the sensation of him, and yet she’s not willing to come up for the air she so desperately needs.
• He nips her lower lip as his hand moves down to knead her backside, pleasure spiraling through her. Her nails scrape the back of his neck in reaction as she stakes her claim.
• “Christ, I want you right now,” his husky voice pants between kisses, intensifying the ache in the muscles coiling below her waist. He moves the hand from the back of her neck and traces it down her ribcage and over until it cups her breast. She cries out a soft moan at the sensation of his fingers rubbing over her hardened peak through the soft material of her dress.
• Her body is ready to consent to his request because she wants this man too. She wants to feel his weight on her, his bare skin sliding on hers, and his length moving rhythmically in her.
• Their entangled bodies bump up against the small alcove in the hallway. He presses her against the wall, their bodies franticly grabbing, groping, and tasting. He skims his hand down to the hem of her cocktail dress, finding purchase when he touches the lace tops of her thigh-high stockings.
• “Sweet Jesus,” he murmurs against her mouth as he runs his hand at a painstakingly slow pace up her outer thigh to the small triangle of lace that serves more as a decoration than as panties.
• What? Those words. When they finally register, she recoils as if whiplashed and pushes on his chest trying to shove him away from her. Those are the same words that she’d heard earlier in the darkened alcove. They hit her like cold water to her libido. What the hell? And what in the hell is she doing anyway, making out with some random guy in the first place? And more importantly, why pick now to do this while she’s in the midst of one of her most important events of the year?
• “No. No—I can’t do this.” Staggering back, she brings a trembling hand up to her mouth to cover her lips swollen from his. His eyes snap up to hers, the emerald color darkened by desire. Anger flashes through them fleetingly.
• “It’s a little late, sweetheart. It looks as if you already have.”
• Fury flashes through her at his sardonic comment. She’s intelligent enough to infer that she’s just become another in the line of his evening’s conquests. She looks back at him, and the smug look on his face makes her want to hurl insults at him.