She’s pissed. I can see it in her eyes, feel it in the tension radiating off of her. I lean back in the chair, wait for the explosion I know is coming. And wonder what the fuck I’m doing. I need her to talk to me, need her to answer my questions—for this article I’m going to put my name on and, more important, for my research. So why the hell am I antagonizing her when I should be kissing her ass?
I don’t have an answer, except that it pisses me off just thinking that she played me. It shouldn’t matter—God knows, she isn’t the first person I’ve interviewed who tried to take me for a ride—and yet somehow it does. It really, really does.
It’s a feeling that she only exacerbates as she settles down in the chair next to mine, as she reaches out and strokes her fingers over the collar of my shirt. As she does, her fingertips gently brush against my neck and every nerve I have comes suddenly alive, as if it was just waiting for this moment. As if my entire being was just waiting for her to touch me.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her tone and body language soothing as she scoots her chair closer to mine. “It’s just that during promo season I get a little defensive. A little protective of my private life.” Her fingers tangle in my hair and tug softly. “Surely you can understand that?” She leans until our bodies are intimately close. “So many people want a piece of me, so many people want to be let in. I have to be careful until I get to know them. Until I can figure out who to trust.”
Her eyes are wide and guileless now, her lips only a couple inches from mine. For a second, just a second, I think of closing the distance. Think of putting my mouth on hers and taking what she’s offering. Only the knowledge that she’s playing me again—playing me still—keeps me from accepting her invitation.
Well, that and the fact that she actually thinks I’m stupid enough to fall for it.
Still, this is a game I’m intimately familiar with, one I’ve played several times through the years in my hunt for information, which is why I don’t call her on it right away. Instead I give her a little more rope, a little more of a chance to hang herself when I ask, “So, have you figured it out?”
She leans in a little more, her full, red lips parted in invitation. “If I can trust you?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.” She slides her hands from my collar to my chest, toys with the buttons of my shirt. Her face is right next to mine and I can tell she’s waiting for me to make a move, waiting for me to kiss her.
She’s emanating desire, all but trembling with it as she leans in so close I can feel her breath against my skin. My dick responds—of course it does—and if this was any other time, any other place, any other woman, she’d already be in my arms. Already be beneath me with her skirt around her hips, her panties around her ankles and my tongue buried deep inside of her.
But this isn’t some other woman. This is Veronica Romero, Hollywood’s sex goddess extraordinaire, and she is still playing me.
The knowledge infuriates me even as it turns me on. Which then infuriates me even more, considering she’s not turned on at all. Considering this is all an act.
I’m close enough to her—and have enough experience with women—to tell the difference.
She’s a brilliant actress, one who can fake a lot of things flawlessly. But not this. Not real, honest desire.
Oh, she’s got the breath hitches down, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the trembling hands and oh-so-open body language. But her eyes aren’t dilated, her skin isn’t flushed and the pattern of her breathing—though fast—is far too even for this to be anything but her using the same tricks on me that she used on Marc earlier.
Which is why, when she finally leans into me—finally brushes her lips against my own—I let her. Once, twice, a third time.
But that’s it. I don’t deepen the kiss, don’t put my hands on her and pull her body against mine, over mine. Don’t do anything that can be mistaken for me making a move on her, even as my dick hardens to the point of pain and my hands clench into empty, aching fists.
She kisses me once more—a soft, glancing thing that invites much, much more. It’s a good move, and if she meant it, I’d be all over her. But she doesn’t and I’ll be damned before I grab on to a woman who doesn’t want me.
She waits several long, drawn-out seconds, her eyes level with mine. But when I still don’t take what she’s so deliberately offering, she pulls away in obvious confusion. Not that I blame her. I can’t imagine that the great Veronica Romero gets turned down very often.
“It’s okay,” she tells me, her tongue once again running over the seam of her lips. Even as I call myself a fool, I can’t help following the motion with my eyes. “You can kiss me.”
“Who says I want to kiss you? I’m here to do an interview.”