Page 20 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I shrug, unembarrassed. “Usually by this hour, I’m comparing vendor quotes or arguing with auditors. Talking science with a woman who can pronounce ‘archipelago’ is exotic.”
She laughs, rolls her eyes. “Your bar is low.”
“It is. But you surpass it.”
Silence again, this time warm. City sounds recede under the night wind. She leans sideways, and her shoulder touches my biceps, tentative. I turn to face her fully.
Moonlight sketches every freckle across her nose. A breeze lifts her hair at the ends, making her look as wild as I suspect she truly is. I cup her jaw—not rushing, just framing—and stroke a thumb under her lower lip, erasing the last of the whipped-cream residue. Her eyes flutter half-closed, lashes catching pale light.
“Whipped cream moustache crisis averted,” I murmur.
“Tragic,” she says, breath ghosting my thumb.
I tilt in. The kiss starts soft—testing fit, mapping edges—but deepens quickly. She tastes of cocoa and adrenaline. Her hands slide up my chest and clutch my robe’s lapels. My palm spreads over the small of her back, and I anchor her to the rail. The city view spins in my peripheral.
Her tongue flicks into my mouth—curiosity turned bold—and sparks shoot down my spine. Desire coils again, threatening myrestraint. I break the kiss, rest my forehead to hers, and inhale her exhales.
She smiles, eyes closed. “You’re a good kisser.”
“As are you.” My voice is lower than usual, rough.
“Well,” she says, cheeks pink under moon-silver, “that’s good to hear.”
“Were you unsure?”
She chuckles, stealing another sip of cocoa. “I don’t do a lot of kissing.”
“Damn.”
“What?”
“I should have graded on a curve.”
She snorts. “What do you mean by that?”
“If you don’t do a lot of kissing, then I have to change your grade from good to excellent.”
Her laughter sets me at ease. “I suppose I’ll have to do some extra credit work to keep that grade up.”
“I’m sure I can figure out an appropriate assignment to ensure you stay on the honor roll.” I love how playful she is. Some sugar babies can feign that carefree nature for a short while, but Thalassa is different. There isn’t a fake bone in her body.
“Favorite film genre?”
I wince and take a breath. I don’t want to lie to her about this, but I’ve gotten some bad reactions when being honest in the past. “Next question.”
She pauses. “I like things set in the desert.Dune—the movies and the TV shows—are great.”
“Sci-fi is good…”
The silence between us isn’t comfortable this time.
She pins an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry—did I cross a line?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. Truth is, I like love stories that make you cry.”
“Oh, you’re a big softy?”
“I promise you no man ever wants to be called that.”
