the hood of that car was punishment, then I shudder to think what his brand of pleasure would feel like.
“Get over yourself, my buttons aren’t that easy to push,” I lie.
“Really?” He turns toward me and cocks his hip against the railing. That stance should make him seem relaxed, cordial. It should make me relax, but it does the opposite and brings to mind an image of a cobra drawing back before it strikes, sinking its deadly venom into unsuspecting prey. “So far the evidence points to the contrary,” he says, his eyes staying on mine with a ferocious intensity that makes me aware of every single vulnerable pore in my body.
I can’t seem to move, or respond. He conducts another survey down my body, this time deliberately lingering on the pulse hammering at my throat and the shadowed area between my then dropping to my hips and legs, before climbing back up again.
Every inch of me tingles. I want to shut off the sensations this man seems to pull so effortlessly from me, but I can’t. My usual ability to flirt and discard at will has deserted me, and all I can do is watch him watch me.
“Perhaps we should explore that,” he invites with a dark undertone.
I desperately pull myself together. “Or perhaps we should get back on point and you should give me a tour of the boat, seeing as that was the purpose of this meeting?”
He blinks disgustingly long lashes and frustration hums from his body. I recall his condemnation of basic social graces in his kitchen two weeks ago and I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing in this place if mingling with society is so abhorrent to him.
Of all the places on earth, Monte Carlo is the very fleshpot of decadence and flashy luxury, a place where people specifically come to see and be seen. So far Mason Sinclair has struck me as the very antithesis of that lifestyle.
He remains silent for the time he takes to finish his drink, and I realize another thing about him. He’s not a man who feels inclined to fill silences with conversation.
Whereas I’m the opposite. Silences terrify me. I can’t help but wonder what another person sees and thinks of me when they’re not talking to me.
The moment he sets his glass down, I turn away from the breathtaking view. “Shall we?”
“In good time.” He folds muscle-roped arms across his broad chest and my attention is reluctantly drawn to his shoulders. “You want to tell me something about yourself?” he asks lazily.
I bristle at his indifferent tone. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Since you’ve gone to some effort to find out about me, I thought I’d make an effort to extend the courtesy.”
The implication that he’d rather not be asking makes my teeth grind. “I know how basic etiquette bores you. You needn’t feign interest on my behalf.”
“My interest in you isn’t feigned. I think I made that clear on our first meeting.”
“And I think we also drew a firm line under our meeting that night?”
His head cocks to one side. “Did we? That’s funny. I remember walking away feeling distinctly...unresolved.”
I shake my head, exasperation seeping through my tight hold on composure. “Heads up, I’m going to use a dirty word in a minute, so you might want to hang on to your fluffy cravat. Your blue balls are your problem. I have no interest in fucking you. Before I fuck someone I have to like them. And I don’t like you, Mason Sinclair.”
He studies me for almost a minute before a blinding smile spreads over his face. The transformation in his features makes me eternally grateful to be holding onto the rail when I feel the power of that smile move through me like a potent burst of electricity.
I remain in place as he drops his arms and closes the distance between us. “Why don’t you like me?” he asks. The smile is gone, but his voice remains darkly amused.
“Do I have to have a reason?” I ask, denying myself the urge to breathe deeply and take in more of that earthy scent
“Get over yourself, my buttons aren’t that easy to push,” I lie.
“Really?” He turns toward me and cocks his hip against the railing. That stance should make him seem relaxed, cordial. It should make me relax, but it does the opposite and brings to mind an image of a cobra drawing back before it strikes, sinking its deadly venom into unsuspecting prey. “So far the evidence points to the contrary,” he says, his eyes staying on mine with a ferocious intensity that makes me aware of every single vulnerable pore in my body.
I can’t seem to move, or respond. He conducts another survey down my body, this time deliberately lingering on the pulse hammering at my throat and the shadowed area between my then dropping to my hips and legs, before climbing back up again.
Every inch of me tingles. I want to shut off the sensations this man seems to pull so effortlessly from me, but I can’t. My usual ability to flirt and discard at will has deserted me, and all I can do is watch him watch me.
“Perhaps we should explore that,” he invites with a dark undertone.
I desperately pull myself together. “Or perhaps we should get back on point and you should give me a tour of the boat, seeing as that was the purpose of this meeting?”
He blinks disgustingly long lashes and frustration hums from his body. I recall his condemnation of basic social graces in his kitchen two weeks ago and I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing in this place if mingling with society is so abhorrent to him.
Of all the places on earth, Monte Carlo is the very fleshpot of decadence and flashy luxury, a place where people specifically come to see and be seen. So far Mason Sinclair has struck me as the very antithesis of that lifestyle.
He remains silent for the time he takes to finish his drink, and I realize another thing about him. He’s not a man who feels inclined to fill silences with conversation.
Whereas I’m the opposite. Silences terrify me. I can’t help but wonder what another person sees and thinks of me when they’re not talking to me.
The moment he sets his glass down, I turn away from the breathtaking view. “Shall we?”
“In good time.” He folds muscle-roped arms across his broad chest and my attention is reluctantly drawn to his shoulders. “You want to tell me something about yourself?” he asks lazily.
I bristle at his indifferent tone. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Since you’ve gone to some effort to find out about me, I thought I’d make an effort to extend the courtesy.”
The implication that he’d rather not be asking makes my teeth grind. “I know how basic etiquette bores you. You needn’t feign interest on my behalf.”
“My interest in you isn’t feigned. I think I made that clear on our first meeting.”
“And I think we also drew a firm line under our meeting that night?”
His head cocks to one side. “Did we? That’s funny. I remember walking away feeling distinctly...unresolved.”
I shake my head, exasperation seeping through my tight hold on composure. “Heads up, I’m going to use a dirty word in a minute, so you might want to hang on to your fluffy cravat. Your blue balls are your problem. I have no interest in fucking you. Before I fuck someone I have to like them. And I don’t like you, Mason Sinclair.”
He studies me for almost a minute before a blinding smile spreads over his face. The transformation in his features makes me eternally grateful to be holding onto the rail when I feel the power of that smile move through me like a potent burst of electricity.
I remain in place as he drops his arms and closes the distance between us. “Why don’t you like me?” he asks. The smile is gone, but his voice remains darkly amused.
“Do I have to have a reason?” I ask, denying myself the urge to breathe deeply and take in more of that earthy scent
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