They approached the stairs and he swept his hand, indicating she should precede him. Brianna gripped her drink in one hand while taking the bannister of the spiral staircase with the other. With each step, she was painfully conscious that his eyes were just about level with her butt which, in her mind, was not adequately covered. She tried to race up the staircase, but the steps were too precarious and she had to move slowly so that she didn’t trip on her own feet and fall on her face. That would really be embarrassing! And how easy would it be to get the story if she was too humiliated to even talk? So she walked up carefully, trying to pretend that she didn’t mind him looking at her butt and reminding herself that many of the women in here purposefully wore dresses that would allow intimate peeks while walking up the stairs.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she spun around, worried that he might have gotten one of those peeks. As he came level with her, she looked into his eyes, trying to gauge how much he’d seen, her hand unconsciously moving to tuck her dress against her skin. A bit belatedly, she realized, but it was instinctive.
“You have beautiful legs,” he said as his face came level with hers, his voice deeper and huskier.
Rocco stood there on the stairs, his body completely out of control as he looked into her pretty, green eyes. He wanted this woman. And it wasn’t one of those languorous feelings of desire that slowly spiraled up inside a person. No, this was gut-wrenching, instantaneous lust. It was a pounding, painful, aching need to possess her body, to feel her writhing around him because of the things he wanted to do to her. He wanted to look into her eyes when he pushed himself into her heat and he wanted to watch her face as he took her to a pleasure that was so out of control, she couldn’t even speak.
That need shocked him but he didn’t back away from it. He wanted her and reveled in that feeling. It broke through the boredom that had been pestering him for a while. There was something special about her, a mystery that didn’t add up. Perhaps that was all this was, he thought with increasing desire.
What was her story? He wondered long and hard as he took the final two steps that would bring him to the top floor. He didn’t let her move away either. As he looked down at her, his hands trapped her while he pressed her gently back against the railing. The fascinating texture of her soft body pressed against his was startling. Never before had he felt so rocked to the core and by such a simple, relatively innocent touch.
Yes, he would have this woman, he thought silently. And he would find out why her eyes widened with fear and confusion whenever he touched her. He would learn why she looked almost taken aback by the desire he could see spiraling in her own eyes.
Once he’d solved all of her mysteries, this need would dissipate, he told himself. He just had to figure out what her secrets were. Why was she here when she was so obviously uncomfortable? Why was she putting herself through such a strange ordeal when she didn’t like to dance, didn’t drink and didn’t like the music being played?
He suspected that she was here for some reason other than to pick up a man for the night. And the thought that she was here to spy on him occurred to him. Even if that were the case, he was more than prepared to be generous with her. He was always generous with the lovers he took to his bed. He liked them warm and willing, and he’d found that expensive baubles made them softer and more generous.
They all expected something, but he didn’t mind. He expected something as well. And he was more than willing to explain exactly what he wanted from each woman. He wasn’t into kink, but a warm, willing, adventurous woman was a delight in bed.
“What do you do?” he asked, bending low so he was speaking into her ear. He actually thought about nipping at the delicate shell of her ear, but pulled back. He suspected that this woman needed a bit more romancing before he could touch her as he wanted to. He’d take things slower than he would prefer, but he knew that his ultimate goal would eventually be realized.
“I’m a writer,” she said, looking up at him through her thick, black eyelashes, wondering if he could tell she was lying. Technically, she wasn’t really lying. She was a writer. She wrote about beautiful events that made people sit back and appreciate life. But she knew she shouldn’t tell this dangerous, strangely attractive man that she was a reporter. Not simply because she wouldn’t get her story. But there was something about him that drew her closer, a connection that she irrationally didn’t want to lose simply because of her career choice.
“And what kinds of things do you write about?” he asked, moving closer when someone tried to move past him, his chest rubbing against her breasts.
She tried to think, but he didn’t move back after the person passed by. That left her breasts crushed against his hard, muscular chest. Brianna wanted to run her hands against that chest, to feel the body heat and explore the muscles underneath the fine, cotton shirt. But instead, she gripped the railing behind her with her free hand while the other held her drink aloft, not allowing her palms to experience the bliss of discovering the secrets beneath his shirt.
“I write about gardens and flowers,” she said slowly, her lips having trouble forming the words. Her eyes dropped to his lips, wondering if he was having as much trouble speaking as she was.
“And are you an expert gardener?” he asked, thinking perhaps she was a garden blogger or wrote books for a living.
Brianna had to laugh at the idea of anyone thinking she was an expert gardener. She couldn’t even keep a cactus alive. “Not even in the loosest meaning of the definition,” she replied.
His hand moved up and spun one of her brown curls around his finger. “So why do you write about flowers and gardening?”
Too late, she should have told him that she was a gardener, a blogger or just something along those lines. She’d actually created this whole persona for herself earlier tonight just in case he asked her personal questions. But she’d messed up and told him the truth. Now what was she supposed to say?
“I like gardening,” she finally explained, which was true. She loved plants, wished she could grow something, anything! But most plants simply died on her for some reason. “I’m just not an expert at it. I write the words of other experts, helping them get their message out to readers.”
He tossed her words around in his mind for a moment. “So you’re a ghost writer?” he suggested and watched her eyes. He knew the instant she decided to lie and almost laughed out loud. She was so easy to read, but he didn’t care that she was dishonest. He wanted her. That was the bottom line.