She let out the sexiest little moan he’d ever heard when their tongues met. He swallowed the sound and angled his head to deepen the kiss, letting their tongues swirl and explore.
The only contact between them was their fused mouths and his hand resting lightly on her jaw. Her arms didn’t come around his neck. His other hand didn’t explore her sweet curves. Their lower bodies didn’t collide.
And yet it was the most erotic kiss of his entire life.
Disappointment slammed into him when Miranda abruptly tore her mouth away. Her hazel eyes shone with arousal and uncertainty, and she was breathing hard, her chest heaving.
“There,” she said. “You got your taste.”
He knew she was trying to sound casual, but her wobbly voice betrayed her.
“And you got yours,” he answered, lifting his eyebrows in challenge. “So let’s hear it.”
To her credit, she met his gaze head-on. “Hear what?”
“Your speech about how you didn’t feel anything, the kiss was no big deal, it doesn’t change your mind about going to bed with me, et cetera, et cetera.”
Miranda sighed. “I’m many things, Seth, but I’m not a liar. I did feel something, and trust me that kiss was a big deal. It was a huge deal, actually.”
She might as well have pulled out a two-by-four and smashed him in the gut, that was how shocked he was by her frank admission. Pure triumph soared through him—only to fizzle out like a wet candle when Miranda kept going.
“But you’re right. It doesn’t change my mind about going to bed with you.” Before he could respond, she spun around and grabbed hold of the doorknob.
“Miranda.”
She went still. “What?” she asked without turning.
“What the hell is it going to take for you to give in to this?” The echo of defeat in his voice surprised him as much as the next question he posed. “What do I have to do to win you over?”
Her back relaxed. Slightly. There was no mistaking her ironic tone as she glanced over her shoulder and said, “For starters? Be nicer to my kids.” Then she slid out the door.
Seth listened to the sound of her footsteps, heard the door of the hall bathroom open and close. He scrubbed both hands through his hair, still feeling winded from that explosive kiss, and now apprehensive, thanks to Miranda’s parting words.
Be nicer to my kids.
Fuck, he should’ve known it would come down to that. He couldn’t blame her, either. Whether he liked it or not, Miranda was a mother. Age-wise, she was young—only twenty-four, if he recalled correctly—but in terms of maturity, she was light-years ahead of other women her age. She took her responsibilities seriously, he knew that, and he was beginning to understand that she was the kind of woman who didn’t do a single thing without thinking it through first.
Which was damn frustrating, because, really, who needed to put this much thought into a casual fling? It wasn’t that difficult—chemistry, sex, good-bye.
In this case, he’d probably need to add “and let’s stay friends” to that list, just in case his mother ever found out; Missy would kick his ass if she discovered he’d pulled his usual love-’em-and-leave-’em act on one of her former dancers. But he had no problem remaining friends with Miranda. He liked her, and they got along. Well, when she wasn’t rejecting him left and right.
So yeah, he could do the whole friendship thing—after he’d had his fill of her in bed.
Be nicer to my kids.
Fine. If it meant finally satisfying his craving for Miranda Breslin, he could totally manage a few cordial words when he was around her children.
Setting his jaw in determination, he left the bedroom and marched into the kitchen, where he found Miranda’s twins sitting at the rectangular table. There was a tall glass of milk in front of each child and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies between them.
Dylan, who was grabbing a beer from the fridge, glanced up at Seth’s arrival. “Want one?” he asked.
Seth nodded and accepted the bottle of Bud. As he twisted off the cap and took a sip, he felt two pairs of eyes watching him. After a second, he shifted his gaze to the table and returned the stare.
No denying that Miranda’s kids were cute. They were carbon copies of their mother, hair the same shade of dark brown, skin the same olive tone, except their eyes were chocolate-brown rather than hazel. The girl exuded a shrewd sort of perceptiveness, her expression more shuttered than her twin’s, whose face was very easy to read.
“What’s on your arm?” the boy asked curiously, those dark eyes glued to the Polynesian design covering Seth’s upper arm.
“It’s a tattoo, dummy,” the girl told her brother in a know-it-all voice.
“I know that,” Jason retorted. “I wanna know what it means.”
“It doesn’t mean anything, kid,” Seth said, then took another gulp of beer. “It’s just a random design.”
“He thinks it makes him look cool,” Dylan explained with a grin as he headed to the table. He sat down next to Jason, leaving one empty chair at the table—the one beside Sophie.