that’s a “no”. Because if you wanted to have sex with him, you would have had it, trust me.’
‘But he didn’t call me, which has to mean he wasn’t interested in having sex with me.’
‘Different things, sex and dating,’ he said dismissively. ‘I’ll bet he kissed you goodnight—or at least tried to.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘How did he kiss you?’ David asked and then regretted the question. The idea of messy, sloppy, long-haired Craig with his mouth near Sarah was making him feel queasy.
‘What do you mean, how?’
Oh God. And now he had to get specific with his words? ‘Cheek, mouth, tongue?’ he got out. ‘Did he whisper anything?’ Dear God. ‘Sniff you?’
‘Cheek. Then mouth. No tongue. No whispers. No sniffing. And I was wearing Jasmin Noir.’
Okay, that was too adorable not to enjoy. ‘Jasmin Noir and he didn’t even sniff you? God, what a slow top!’
‘Dimples! I can see them! And stop twitching your mouth.’
‘Sorry, but it’s funny. So … what did he smell like?’
She frowned, as though trying to recall, but in the end, shook her head. ‘I don’t think he was wearing any cologne.’
‘Now there you’re wrong. Craig drenches himself for a regular day in the office, so I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest he wears at least a hint of Old Spice when he’s on a date.’ Which meant what? Not much of a kiss had occurred—that seemed certain! Good. Craig was the worst possible choice, a huge mistake on David’s part. ‘So … what? Didn’t he get close enough for long enough?’
‘Of course he got close enough. I told you, he kissed me.’
‘What did he do with his hands? Where did he put them?’
‘On my shoulders. Hey!’ As David shook his head, disgusted … and relieved. ‘It was a simple goodnight kiss, not a deep-dive tonsillectomy!’
‘And you didn’t like it, did you?’
‘It was … all right.’
‘Wow. That good, huh?’
‘Well, it wasn’t bad, anyway.’ She sounded exasperated … but then her eyes narrowed slightly and her tongue came out to tap her top lip for a moment. Next moment, she was depositing her wineglass on the closest table. ‘I’ll show you.’
And as Sarah started walking towards him, David’s mind went completely blank.
***
Sarah wasn’t sure what she was doing was a good idea, or even why she was doing it, but she was doing it anyway.
David had gone as still as a statue. He didn’t move even when she took the sketchbook and pencil from his slack hands and put them on the coffee table. She was close enough to smell him now, in a way she couldn’t remember smelling Craig, and concentrated on trying to define what it was about the scent of him that was so alluring. Patchouli … dark rose … brandy cream. Delectable.
David’s nostrils had flared, like he could smell her, too. Why, oh why, wasn’t she wearing Jasmin Noir? Maybe then, she wouldn’t be kissing him, he’d be kissing her. Wait! What? No! This wasn’t a real kiss. It was a demonstration.
Demonstration, she repeated in her head as she put her hands on David’s shoulders.
She raised herself as high as she could on her toes, and brushed her mouth against his cheek. A quick swirl of impressions assaulted her. That wondrously complicated scent. The raspy feel of the stubble on his cheek, against her mouth. The way his shoulders tensed suddenly under her hands. How his body seemed to lock. Her thumping heart. The slap of need low in her belly. A desire to touch her tongue to his skin, slide her hands over his chest.
She adjusted her stance, subtly bringing her thighs closer together because she wasn’t sure they wouldn’t go in opposite directions if she didn’t take charge of them, then chastely pressed her lips against his. She wanted to sigh, and lean against him, and keep her mouth there. She had to force herself to count in her head—one, two, three, four, which she judged was the length of time Craig’s kiss had taken—then force herself to come down off her toes.
‘Like that,’ she said, all breathy. When David only watched, unsmiling, she added, ‘Only if we wanted to be strictly accurate, we’d have to reverse positions. You know, make me the one being kissed.’
‘So like this?’ David asked. But he didn’t wait for an answer, simply put his hands, heavy and hard, on her shoulders and leaned down.
Sarah waited, breath held, her heartbeat kicking up an extra notch. An indistinct plea formed in her head for something, some contact. But he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he put his cheek on hers. Rested it there for a long moment, breathing her in. ‘Not jasmine,’ he said, against her ear. ‘Vanilla.’
She nodded, too full of heightened expectation to speak. And then David shifted, his hands tightening, mouth touching her cheek for a long, lingering moment. Moving to her mouth, staying there for one, two … three … four … five … Oohhhhhh.
He eased back, looked down at her. ‘So … Did you like that, Sarah?’
‘It was …’ Beautiful. Intense. Amazing. More, I want more, I want— No! That wasn’t the deal. She had to stop this now. She cleared her throat. ‘Okay.’
Silence, deep and heavy, as a shiver trembled through her. He touched her hot cheek, as though he were testing the blush she knew was there. Lying—he knew she was lying.
‘Just okay?’ he asked softly, and something flared in his eyes that was completely different from his usual slightly bored amusement. ‘Then I think we’d better analyse it.’
‘I don’t unders—’
‘What was wrong with it?’
‘N-nothing.’
‘But nothing was especially right with it, either. Was it too wet?’
‘No.’
‘Too dry?’
‘No.’
‘Too tentative?’
‘No.’
‘Was I too aggressive?’
Sarah licked her lips as though recalling the kiss—saw his eyes zoom in on her mouth, and found herself licking her lips again. ‘No.’
‘Taste bad?’
‘Wh—? No! You tasted like … like wine. At least … Did you? I don’t know. That was a closed-mouth kiss.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘And seriously, there was nothing wrong with it. I just … it just … was okay.’ Blushing hard. ‘Same as Craig.’ Blushing harder.
‘Same as Craig,’ he repeated, and there was that flare in his eyes again. Danger. ‘I think you know I can’t leave that comparison unchallenged, Sarah,’ he said, and then he smiled—minus any hint of a dimple. ‘So brace yourself.’
As David stared down into Sarah’s big blue eyes, common sense nudged at his frontal lobe, telling him he was making a mistake. But it was no match for the roar of blood in his veins urging him to prove he was nothing like that anaemic fedora-wearing fucker Craig.
David had the moves, he had the technique, and he had the control to employ both with clinical accuracy. He could get a woman halfway to orgasm from one kiss if