Page 8 of 'Tis the season of Wicked Deeds

“I like to leave a little to the imagination,” he teases, before adding smoothly, “besides a single page can hardly encompass everything about a person. A little mystery never hurt anybody.”

Oh! If he only knew the mystery I’m hiding.

“That is a lot,” I reply haughtily. “Are there more?”

Shit. That totally sounded flirtatious.

Just great.

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table and rubbing at his chiseled jawline with one hand. “What do you think?”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

“I’m more curious about where they end.”

He chuckles. Low and husky. “If you ask nicely, I might show you.”

Retreat. Retreat. Retreat.

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“A spectacular way to die, isn’t it?”

Indeed, it will be. “If only I had a death wish.”

“The offer still stands.”

He thinks you’re Tina.

But Tina would never be this flirtatious. It’s all me.

Still, reminding myself I’m Tina has the desired effect. Taking a sip from the glass of water, which was already sitting there when I got back, I reply, “It won’t go over well with my family.”

“What about you?” he asks instead. “Do they offend you?”

This would be the perfect excuse to let him down. Yet, a completely different response slips from my mouth. “No. It’s just that I’ve never met anyone who has as many tattoos as you before.”

“I’m honored to be your first.” His tone is dripping with sexual innuendos that my treacherous body doesn’t miss. “What other firsts have I stolen from you until now?” he arrogantly asks, cocky that there are more. Damn if it isn’t true.

Instant attraction. Potent lust at first sight. Pussy wet with a single glance.

Take your pick.

“Do you never stop flirting?”

“I’m on a date with a beautiful and irresistible woman, how can I not?” he huskily says, charm dripping like honey from his mouth. “Plus, I’m supposed to impress and win you over.”

“Not every woman is looking for a husband who can flirt with every woman on the planet.” I deliver the statement with as much disdain as I can muster, while my insides are a bundle of nerves, fearing he can see through my act. “I certainly am not.”

“Bold of you to assume I treat every woman similarly.”

“You said so yourself; that’s what you do on dates.”

“No.” His tone is deep and commanding. “I said that’s whathappenson a date. The two people meeting flirt and joke while getting to know one another. And again, bold of you to assume I go out on dates regularly. Maybe this is my first.”

“Yeah, right.” My voice is sarcastic while I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes.

That wicked light sparks in his gaze as if he finds my antics hilarious. The total opposite of my intention. As soon as it comes, it’s gone and he asks curiously, “What are you looking for in a partner?”

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