anyone.”
Her head snapped up. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Huh.”
“What is this ‘huh’?”
“Nothing. I’m just surprised.” With a new boldness, Jasmine leaned across the breakfast bar, pulled Luca’s sweating glass toward her and drank from the same spot he had drunk from.
His eyes followed her. “Why?”
“Because.” She examined him from the corner of her eye. It seemed impossible that he was single. He was...well, what she knew of him was all positive. He was kind to strangers, for sure. He had the nicest hands—she couldn’t look at them without imagining them on her body. He filled out his clothes in all the right ways—she tilted her head to eye his crotch again. Very nice.
And then there were his eyes.
He had “I’m going to fuck you” eyes.
And she was here to say yes to those eyes.
But Jasmine wasn’t ready to say any of that, so instead, she shrugged, turned the glass on the wet spot it had created on the counter and said, “You just seem like a good person.”
He made a deep, guttural sound. “You don’t know me.”
Jasmine glanced up. “Are you saying you’re not a good person?”
Luca shook his head and poured himself a second glass of water. When he didn’t answer, Jasmine pushed herself to her feet and wandered into the living room, running her hands along the spartan bookshelves, pulling out copies of books—novels?—in French and a guide to Paris in English. She picked up an ornamental bowl made of alabaster and weighed it in her hands before setting it down again and moving on. What quickly became apparent was that there was not one personal item in this space. No photographs. No personal papers or keepsakes. No clutter. It was completely neutral.
She turned to Luca. “Who’s apartment is this?”
“It’s mine,” he said, though it sounded defensive. Even with the sexy French accent.
“No, it’s not.”
He cleared his throat. “It belongs to a friend of mine. It’s mine for now.”
Jasmine was just about to ask why he was staying at a friend’s place, when Luca answered the question for her.
“My girlfriend and I broke up six months ago. It wasn’t...amicable. I’ve been staying here since.” He turned his back so she couldn’t see his expression.
Was he angry? Heartbroken? Something else?
Hmm. Well, he was single and his explanation made sense. Her gaze swept the room once more and she spied his laptop sitting on the coffee table.
“Hey, can I borrow your laptop?” She strode over and flipped it open.
“Attendez!”
Startled, Jasmine jumped back. Luca strode over and snatched the machine off the coffee table before taking it into the kitchen and setting it on the counter facing away from her. He tapped rapidly on the keyboard before using the touchpad, and after a couple minutes, he brought the computer back and set it on the coffee table in front of her, open to a search engine.
Interesting. What was it that he didn’t want her to see? Considering someone had been sporting a healthy erection when she’d woken him up, Jasmine could guess. Was it the head wound or just the fact that she was starting to feel like her old self that gave her the courage to blurt, “Were you surfing porn, Luca?”
“Pardon?” He reached into a cupboard overhead and retrieved two clean wine glasses.
She smiled to herself as she leaned forward to check email.
What the hell was her password?
“Porn,” she said absently as she typed some random phrase into the field. She glanced up at him. “You do know what porn is, don’t you?”
“Of course I know.” He had the good grace to look uncomfortable for approximately three seconds and then his lips twitched and a slow smile spread across his face. He poured wine into the glasses he’d gotten out of the cupboard and came to sit beside her on the couch.
With the warmth of his thigh pressed against hers, Jasmine really couldn’t think as each password she tried only resulted in an error message. She was so used to logging in automatically from her phone app—when was the last time she’d needed her password?
“And if I was?” Luca asked, so close to her ear it tickled.
She shivered at the pleasant sensation, her hands hovering above the keyboard like they were as frozen as her email account would be if she failed too many more attempts. Jasmine shut the lid of the laptop, the turn of the conversation seeming more important than email at the moment.
She turned to face him. “I guess that’s your business.”
He handed her a glass. His gaze was as intense as ever, but something had changed. Something subtle. It wasn’t like he was searching; it was like he was trying to convey something. Something important. Something fierce.
Whatever it was, her body responded.
Hard.
Her lips parted and her mouth was suddenly dry. She wet her lips, and Luca’s searing gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering there. “Should I be ashamed of watching people make love?” His nostrils flared, as if he was a predator, scenting her. His gaze narrowed as it returned to hers, and the quirk of his lips was on the cynical side.
“No.” Jasmine shook her head, unable to break eye contact. “I don’t think so.”
He nodded and drank. When his stare focused elsewhere, Jasmine was able to take a sip of wine herself.
God, it was good. Smooth, like silk slipping down her throat...
“What kind of an American are you, Jasmine Sweet?”
“Huh?”
“There are stereotypes, you know. About Americans.”
“I’m sure there are.” Americans had plenty of stereotypes about the French, too.
It went both ways.
“So,” she said, raising a brow. “Are you going to tell me what they are?”
His nod was almost imperceptible. “There is the puritan American. Someone who thinks the body and bodily functions are dirty.”
Jasmine bit her lip.
“Is that you, Ms. Sweet?” He leaned forward.
She held her breath.
“Or...” He backed up and cocked his head to the side. “Are you the kind who enjoys being a woman, physically and sexually, but who pretends she doesn’t like sex because she’s ashamed of her pleasure?”
The breath that Jasmine finally dragged into her lungs was ragged. When Luca didn’t continue, Jasmine asked in a breathy voice, “Are those the only stereotypes you have for American women?”
Luca shrugged.
“What about...” Jasmine began. “The American woman who enjoys sex and isn’t afraid to admit it?”
“Does such a woman exist?”
“Oh, yes.” Jasmine set her glass down beside the computer and scooted closer to Luca. “What about the American who likes to try new things?” She reached for his face, wanting—no, needing—to know what his beard felt like against the tips of her fingers. Against her cheek. Her mouth.
As much as Jasmine was willing herself to be this bold, confident sex-venturer, her fingers still shook when she touched him. But she didn’t care.