This week from the WIP (Work in Progress) which once again sadly has no title. It will come to me at some point. :-) It's about a chef. And a wacky interior designer. I'm having fun with Bradan and Mirelle!
“You hugged Jerick Ellard the other night.”
Her eyes widened. “What!”
“You hugged him.” His jaw tightened. “You obviously were friends with him and he was a client.” Christ, he sounded like a petulant little boy.
She laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He felt his chin jut out. He stepped closer. “You said we could be friends. The other night.”
“You want me to hug you?” she asked incredulously.
Yeah. Oh hell, yeah. But probably best not to answer that one out loud. He stepped closer and reached out to lift a stray golden strand of hair away from her face, moving it behind her shoulder, taking the opportunity to let his fingers stroke over her soft hair and then brush across her shoulder. “I just want to be friends.”
“Friends.” The word came out on a breath.
“Sure.” He was lying. Through his teeth. He dragged his fingertips up the side of her neck, sliding under her hair where she was so warm, her skin peachy-soft, letting his thumb skim over her small chin, then her bottom lip. Her scent drifted toward him, vanilla and lemon and sugar. It made his mouth water, made him want to inhale her, eat her up. Her eyes darkened as she continued to stare at him. He didn’t just want to be friends with her. He wanted to bang her brains out.
He cupped the back of her neck and pulled her closer, still holding her gaze. He looked at her mouth, soft and pink, a buzzing in his ears, blood rushing to his groin with painful heat, and his eyes closed as he bent his head to kiss her, to breathe her in.
And encountered nothing but air.