by Jill Monroe
“I’ll invite physical contact. Most people think men are the true aggressors, but it’s really women who initiate that first touch. A mature man waits for the invitation, knows how to bide his time for the payoff. I might do something like reach over and pull off an imaginary thread from your shirt.”
Ava stretched her arm, her fingers lightly brushing his shoulders. She felt the muscles tense below her fingertips. She was affecting him, and that felt very, very good.
“Now that I have your full attention, I’ll take my drink, play with the straw, bring it to my mouth.”
His eyes shifted to her lips and he exhaled a breath.
Then back again to her eyes.
His pupils were more dilated.
“I want you to think about my mouth,” she explained as she sipped her wine. The waiter had looked at her as if she was crazy when she’d asked for the straw, but she knew what she was doing.
He ran a finger along the collar of his shirt. “I never knew how hot this flirting research could be.”
Her gaze was drawn to the skin below his ear. Would he be sensitive there, like her? His mouth thinned, as if he guessed her thoughts. Good. He was becoming more in tune with her. Of course, it wasn’t as if she were trying to hide that she was thinking about sex. Sex with him.
“Over time, women developed a set of skills to test men in a very short period of time. It’s a back and forth. I make a move, you make a move. It’s actually quite sophisticated. If it’s working, you’ll know we’ll be on the same page while in bed.”
His gaze heated. “You’re making me a believer.”
“There’s only one other sure way a woman can verify she’ll be compatible with a man before sex.”
His brows lifted. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
She eyed the couples out on the dance floor. Some moving with grace, others encompassing the more sensual movements. “We dance.”
“I’ll order you another drink.” Ian signaled for the bartender.
Ava frowned. “Why?”
“Modern dating tip. Men become better dancers as women drink more.”
Ava laughed. Not exactly the response from him that she’d been looking for—she’d been hoping he’d nearly yank her onto the dance floor so he could finally have her in his arms. But funny always worked in a man. “How many more drinks before you’re out under those flashing lights with me?”
“Oh, I’d say a lot.”
The bartender delivered another one of those green drinks and a shot of something for him. She sipped from her martini glass, loving the tart sweetness of it. Silence. It could be uncomfortable and awkward. But right now, it just stretched the anticipation, the wonder of what would happen next.
The tempo of the music changed, from hard drumbeats to soft, lilting guitar. The lights dimmed, and she imagined gliding around on the dance floor, his strong arms around her.
Something like determination molded his features. He downed his drink in a swallow, met her eyes then offered his hand.
With a half smile, she replaced her martini glass on the bar and stood. She lifted her fingers to his, and his hand engulfed hers in warmth.
He found a secluded spot on the dance floor where the lights were dimmer and drew her into his arms. Close, so she felt the heat of him, couldn’t miss the sexy scent of him. But not so close she felt intimidated by his size. Somewhere along the way, Ian Cole had picked up how to treat a woman.
They moved to the music slowly. “You’re a good dancer.” She looked at him with surprise after his dancing protests from a few moments ago.
Even in the low light, she could see the weird face he’d made at her compliment. “My father made sure my sister and I had dance lessons.”
“Actually, that’s a good thing. I’ll give you a tip. A woman can tell a lot by how a man handles himself while dancing. His confidence. How comfortable he feels with his own body. How he moves.”
“And how are my moves?” he asked as his fingers caressed the small of her back.
The man gave her shivers.
“Not bad. But it’s more than just your moves a woman is examining. You show me something about yourself as a man by not allowing other dancers to bump into me or take up our dancing space. A woman’s mind begins to imagine. Is he adventurous with his—”
“I’ll give you a tip.” His thumb traced her bottom lip and her words died. In fact, just what had she been going to say?
He drew her closer into the heat of his body. His gaze never left hers.
“Just dance with me,” he said. “No more talking about flirting. What we should be doing. I want only this.”
Ava closed her eyes when his fingers sank into her hair, the caress against her scalp. He drew her head to his shoulder, the softness of his shirt smooth under her cheek.
He was right. With his strong arms surrounding her, the brush of his thighs against her as they moved, the last thing she wanted to do was discuss the social importance of dancing. She wanted to experience the dance. And that was the first time she’d ever truly wanted to be a participant rather than a cultural observer.
The song ended, the tempo of the music quickened, and Ian led her off the dance floor, their fingers twined together. He wore the confident look of a man who had a woman exactly where he wanted her. Lesson number two for her. She finally understood the battle between the genders she’d observed earlier, and which Ian mentioned. The subtle love play that kept one partner as the lead.
She’d had the lead until the dance. She wanted it back. “Ian, I didn’t tell you the surefire way a woman secures a man’s attention.”
“One more might kill me,” he said, that sexy smile showing her he wasn’t really worried.
She drew her fingertips down his jaw, and his smile faded. “Make him know you’re a bad idea. Men always want what they shouldn’t have.”
He arched a brow. “Oh, yeah, like how?”
“By telling you the truth.” Ava tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, licked her lips and shyly met his gaze. Then she held it, angling her body toward him. All at once the shy seductress and bold temptress. “This isn’t a good idea. It might ruin everything. Our work,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
Ian leaned closer. His expression determined to know her meaning. “What might ruin everything?”
“Getting involved. Having sex.”
Ian swallowed. She almost felt sorry for him. After all, she’d brought out all the big weapons a woman possessed. She knew how to use them.
Ava wanted to make him burn. She wanted him to want her so badly he thought of nothing else.
She wanted to feel it, too.
He flashed her a sexy, crooked smile. Ahh, men must have that move ingrained in their DNA. Crooked smiles made a woman think mischievous. And mischievous suggested all kinds of naughty and delightful things between the sheets.
“Let’s get out of here,” he ordered, his voice deep and seductive.
“I still have my drink,” she told him, not the least bit thirsty.
His eyes grew alarmed. “Leave it. I’ll buy you another. That’s a modern dating tip. Never leave your drink unattended then consume more.”
“It seems such a waste.”
“I’ll show you what’s going to waste.” Ian lowered his head, his lips lightly brushing hers. “Still thirsty?” he asked against her mouth, his breath a warm caress against her cheek.
She shook her head.
“Good.” He reached for her hand again, leading her through the couples and weaving between the tables until they were outside.
The cold chill of the winter air nipped at her skin, but she didn’t feel a thing. That light teasing kiss Ian had given her had heated her from the inside, and she was ready for more.
The Bricktown sidewalks teemed with activity. The bright streetlights illuminated their path as they made their way amongst the other late-night revelers. The street vendors had gone, replaced by rickshaws. A police officer patrolling on h
is bicycle rode past as they walked toward her building.
Any other night she’d want to take it slow. Enjoy the ambiance and people watch. But this wasn’t any ordinary night. Tonight Ian held her by the hand, and she was ready for him to demonstrate the promises his body had made to her on the dance floor.
Everything about him suggested he’d be an unselfish lover. And could there be anything sexier than a man who cared about his woman’s pleasure?
In what felt like way too long a walk, they approached her apartment. In the shadows he pulled her into his arms. Ava stretched, looping her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair. Their gazes locked briefly in the moonlight.
“You want me to tell you how I kiss a woman, Ava?”
No. She wanted him to show her. Right now.
“I touch her face. Cup her cheek. Then I let my hands slide down her shoulders. Her arms. Just a gentle glide. Make her feel comfortable. Let her know I’d never do anything she doesn’t want me to do to her body.”
His actions, followed only seconds after his words, was utter seduction, drawing out her anticipation, making her ache to feel what he described.
“I stop at her waist. That safe spot between your hips and your breasts is pure temptation. I can move my hands up or down and be in heaven.”
When had he stopped talking in the abstract? Now he was talking only about her. How parts of her were heaven to him. Some of those parts started to get really excited about the prospect.
“What shall it be?” he asked, his gaze lowering to her lips for a moment before returning to her eyes.
He didn’t wait for her response. His fingers cupped her hips and he drew her closer. The tips of her breasts brushed his chest, her nipples hardening at the contact. Her eyes drifted shut for a moment at the exquisiteness of the sensation. As a scientist, she’d studied gender response, researched the origins of customs related to sex and observed the intricate human behaviors that led to it, but experiencing her own response to Ian was intense.
His head descended, but instead of finding her lips, the firm softness of his mouth drifted along her neck. Tingles shot out to everywhere in her body.
“Remember you asked if I were up for the challenge? Could I give you pleasure here?” His breath sent a shiver down her sensitive skin.
His lips slid a slow path down her neck. Across the exposed area of her collarbone. She sucked in a breath when he followed with his tongue.
Yes. Ian Cole was definitely up for the challenge.
His hands caressed her through her shirt, running up and down her back. Shivers of sensation crisscrossed her spine.
“A less patient man might go straight for your mouth. A hard, hungry kiss to show you how hard and hungry I am. But I won’t do that.”
“You won’t?” she asked, unable to mask her disappointment.
“No, a woman like you appreciates a man willing to take risks, not give you what you expect.”
Ian kissed both of her closed eyes. The tip of her nose. Each time she sensed his lips getting closer to hers, she raised her mouth, tried to finally feel his lips.
When he began kissing her forehead she’d had enough. Ava opened her eyes to see Ian smiling at her. Gentle, as though he knew he’d been driving her crazy, but his eyes were dark, so she understood he had been waiting, just like her.
“Kiss me, Ian.”
“Just waiting for the invitation.” He lowered his head and his lips lightly touched hers. Brushed hers for a moment. Then his lips firmed and he kissed her. Passion ignited between them. Burned. Ian kissed her as if he’d rather kiss her than breathe.
Her fingers twined in the hair at his nape. Her heart pounded. The blood rushed in her ears. Ava pressed her body close.
Ian broke off the kiss. The heaviness of their breathing filled the night air. She moaned in disappointment.
“Ava, I haven’t shared with you the last tip,” he said.
Her lids lifted and she looked into his eyes, clearing away the confusion his kiss caused. “What?”
He dropped his arms. “Always leave them wanting more.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Good night,” he whispered.
After making sure she entered her building safely, Ian turned swiftly and headed back down the sidewalk in the direction of his hotel.
Her whole body ached with sexual frustration.
Irritation.
Aggravation made her movements jerky as she let herself into her apartment.
Annoyed—yes. Disappointed—for sure. But secretly impressed by his ability to turn the tables on her—yes, she was that, too. “Well played, Mr. Cole. Well played.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AVA SIMMS WAS ONE HELL of an adrenaline rush. Still, kissing her was not one of Ian’s best moves.
Actually, it had been a great move.
But walking away before he suggested something stupid like continuing their research up in her bedroom was his best move of the night.
Ava possessed the kind of lips that invited a man’s eyes. A call to investigate. Luckily, that fit right in with his chosen profession of journalist. He could easily spend the next few weeks working on her manuscript all the while exploring the woman. Studying the way her body matched perfectly to his. Or discovering new ways to have her make those sexy little sounds she’d made when their kiss deepened. Her soft moans fired something in his blood.
He could better use his time examining why she made him uneasy. As a reporter, Ian trusted his instincts when they warned him something wasn’t exactly as it appeared. And Ava Simms was definitely not the almost-mild-mannered anthropology professor she seemed.
Somehow he knew she’d been expecting him to make a move on her, had been building every moment they had together to that point. It was as if she had something to prove about the validity of her theories and ideas, and he was the guinea pig.
Normally, if a smart, desirable and beautiful woman wanted to test her sexual ideas on his body, who was he to get in the way of science?
But he didn’t usually work with smart, desirable women. Mostly it was a bunch of smelly angry guys alongside him in the field, if he worked with anyone at all. Quite frankly, he didn’t have the skill set for this scenario.
Which was maybe what his sister liked about sending him here to Oklahoma. Miriam, she had a sadistic streak in her where he was concerned. Probably payback for the time he gave all her Barbies buzz cuts before he’d allow them to play with his G.I. Joe. Could be the fact her face was plastered across Do Not Allow into the Country posters in at least one South American country because of him. Or maybe it was for allowing her to do all the heavy lifting as far as their mother was concerned. Probably all three.
His sister wouldn’t like the idea of him getting involved with Ava. That, of course, would have been incentive in itself, but he’d long since grown up and quit trying to shock Miriam. She was the only person in this world whom he knew who actually gave a crap about him, and he loved her for it.
Loved her so much that he’d be up at six o’clock in the morning in Oklahoma completing a full edit on a sex book that should be titillating but wasn’t. That was until he pictured the author.
Which brought him back full circle to Ava.
Damn. His body reacted just to the thought of her. Knowing she was trying out all her theories and techniques on him didn’t prevent them from working on him. Since he’d met her, he’d been surrounded by images of sex. Not to mention the scents that also made him think only of sex. And now he had to read about it. And damn if that infuriating aroma of cinnamon didn’t turn him on.
Maybe she did have something with that flower garland story. He had to admit he’d much rather twist a bunch of carnations together than tell her just how much work her Recipe for Sex needed. That quick read-through he’d given it on the plane hadn’t revealed all the problems.
He should probably try to figure out why he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. This was work. It wasn’t personal. He’d ne
ver been one not to tell it to someone straight. His career was based on just the facts.
Yeah, he should probably scrutinize those feelings, but he wouldn’t. He preferred to keep his emotions in the shallow end of the pool. A lesson learned early, and one that had never failed him.
THREE HUNDRED AND twenty-seven manuscript pages.
Three hundred and twenty-seven manuscript pages she’d written in a frenzy of anguish and drive. Nineteen-hour days, restless nights and little food had been Ava’s life until she had finally typed The End. She’d poured her heart, as well as every other body part she possessed, into Recipe for Sex.
Three hundred and twenty-seven pages that were now covered from top to bottom, left to right in red ink. Some of her writing had apparently been so bad he’d had to make notations on the back. With drawings. This didn’t include the sticky notes. Or the seven pages of notes he’d scribbled on a yellow legal pad.
She could almost feel his irritation in the large red X’s that annihilated every paragraph in chapter three. The force from his pen had left an impression three pages down.
“No, no. That’s all wrong,” Ian told her for about the billionth time as he turned a page. She’d almost stopped paying attention.
He’d showed up at her apartment this morning with bagels, coffee and a determination to cross out months of her hard work with that lethal red pen of his. He’d looked innocent enough, wearing jeans and an Oklahoma Sooners T-shirt he must have bought since his arrival. Innocent for someone who was about to rip her heart out with his critique. Although critique was too nice a word because he’d found nothing positive.
His eyes flared a bit when she opened the door to him wearing the ceremonial dress of the Hidali.
“At least it’s more than paint,” he mumbled as he slid past her into her apartment. But she couldn’t tell if he was happy about that or disappointed.
But her attire wasn’t much more than paint as the Hidali hailed from Africa and the clothing took into account the heat, and the beauty of the flora that lent to the dyes. The colorful material was free-flowing and quite sheer.
“There’s an elaborate meal that goes with this costume. I thought we could try it at lunchtime. I’ve already prepared the food. One of the dishes has some real aphrodisiacal properties.”
