Just One Taste. Victoria DahlЧитать онлайн книгу.
managed to rein in her hormones enough that she no longer feared spontaneous combustion. No doubt temporarily, but still that was something.
He wanted her. She could all but see the attraction shimmering between them. Yet he remained smooth. Composed. In control. Maybe he’d give her lessons.
After they’d driven a few miles away from the quiet elegance of moneyed homes, past the tall towers of office buildings and heading toward midtown, her cell phone rang.
“I haven’t thought about, looked at or considered any other woman since the moment I saw you.”
“We just met an hour ago.”
He laughed. “I really do like you, Vanessa.”
“Which brings up a good point. I know your last name. You don’t know mine.”
“Do you want to tell me?” he asked, his voice echoing intimately in her ear.
“Not particularly.”
“Then don’t.”
“How much farther?”
“We’re nearly there.”
“You live in midtown?”
“My office is nearby. It’s convenient.”
She wanted to ask about his office but didn’t. Her father’s office was also nearby, but he certainly would have mentioned hiring an old-moneyed Louisiana lawyer, which Lucas had to be, so he must work for a rival firm. In her father’s eyes, every firm was a rival, after all.
For a moment—a really brief moment—she considered turning off. He was part of the world she’d left a long time ago, a world she’d honestly never felt comfortable living in. Did she really want to get involved with a man who did? Despite the few times she’d given in to her sister’s setups, she’d been careful not to fish from her old pond.
Involved? You’re not getting involved. Carnal exploration, heat, falling into a fantasy. That’s it, remember?
Her pulse skipped a beat as she pictured the heated look in Lucas’s eyes.
Oh, I remember.
They pulled into the parking lot of a luxury high-rise apartment building. Vanessa’s hands trembled as she shut off her car. They barely spoke as they rode in the elevator to the sixteenth floor.
Lucas rested his hand at the small of her back, and they watched the numbers light in amber sequence. Sometime during the drive he’d ditched his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Vanessa fought the urge to slide her hand in the opening and see if his chest was as warm and hard as she’d imagined. By the time sixteen dinged, her palms were sweating.
He unlocked the door to his apartment, tossed his keys on a mahogany table in the foyer, and before she could do more than glimpse at the sunken living room decorated in neutral shades, he’d pinned her to the wall.
“Wanna throw down right here?”
Instinctively, she arched into her body against his. Finally was all she could think. Finally his composure had snapped. She wasn’t alone. He, too, felt this clawing, aching need. This desire that throbbed through her like a second pulse.
She had the sense that grabbing him—or, hell, just nodding at him—would be enough to have him ripping off their clothes and driving himself deep inside her. She wanted that immediate gratification. It would keep her from questioning her decision. It would keep things simple. She wanted him. She was drawn to him and intrigued by him. Did she really need to know him?
Before she could form an answer, he slid his hand gently across her cheek, then stepped back. “Relax, chère, I have some manners.”
Still trying to catch her breath, she stared after him for a stunned and confused—and needy—minute before curiosity forced her to follow him down the hall and into the kitchen, which was as sophisticated and sleek as he was. Black marble countertops, gleaming appliances, ceramic-tile floor and iron stools lined up along a curved bar.
What was with the manners thing? Some manners? He was impeccable. She’d spent a lifetime trying and failing to be that smooth.
He was a bit forward, she supposed, but for some reason, she doubted he came on to every woman the way he had her. Something about her had set him off. Just as the same had happened to her. She felt a connection to him she didn’t even feel in the presence of her own family. But when he wasn’t touching her, or looking at her in that intimate way he had, he seemed like a stranger.
He is.
He opened a below-the-counter wine fridge and pulled out a bottle. “I’m having whiskey, but I imagine you’d like something a bit softer.”
Was she predictable now? And soft? In her mind, soft was just another word for gentle, quiet or—worse—demure.
Oh, hell no.
She could admit to herself she was questioning her impulse to leave with him. She could silently acknowledge she was uncertain and off balance. But she wasn’t about to let him in on those weaknesses.
She was strong. Self-possessed. Bold. Confident.
She’d worked her ass off to make sure.
Leaning one hip against the counter, she said, “I’ll have whiskey.”
In the process of retrieving a wineglass from the cabinet, he turned. “One finger or two?”
Oh, God, she was pretty sure that meant straight. No ice, no mixer. She swallowed bravely, then smiled at the challenge in his eyes. “Whatever you’re having.”
He set two crystal tumblers on the counter, then poured a healthy amount into each from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Black Label. He handed one to her, then raised his glass. “To tattoos.”
She tapped her glass against his. “And chocolate.” She sipped and felt heroic when she managed to down a swallow of the burning liquid without choking.
“Good?” he asked, raising one cocky eyebrow.
She actually liked the taste of whiskey; she just didn’t like swallowing it. She’d dated a saxophone player once who’d always sipped whiskey at the end of his set, and he’d tasted fabulous. Drinking the stuff, though—especially without ice—must be an acquired thing.
“Smooth,” she managed to say.
“After the third or fourth glass, you hardly taste it at all.”
Now her chest was burning. “I’m sure.”
Grinning as if he knew the torture she was enduring, he linked hands with her and led her down the steps, through the living room and onto the balcony.
Though the view of the sparkling sky was stunning, and the balcony was nearly as richly decorated as the inside, Vanessa wasn’t sure they could accomplish the night’s goal on the wicker couch and chaise longue. But Lucas leaned against the balcony wall, the lights from the high-rise across the street framing his body, as if he planned to hang out there all night.
“You have a thing about being outside, don’t you?” she asked.
“The fresh air clears my mind—” he toasted her “—which you’ve fogged up quite nicely.”
Bravely, Vanessa took another sip of her whiskey. “And you need a clear head?”
“Yes.”
“What happens if you don’t have one?”
“I grab you and drag you back to my bedroom.”
Sounds pretty good to me. “And you don’t want to do that because…”
“I want to too much.”
Is it any wonder I’m fascinated with the man? “What happens to things you want too much?”
“I still get them. I’m