Sun God Seeks…Surrogate? (Accidentally Yours #3)(12)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

I removed myself from the barstool, and when I felt his toasty-warm palm brush across the base of my bare back, I was pretty darn sure I’d somehow acquired an addiction to him. And that meant I’d do almost anything to have him touch me again.

***

An awkward silence filled the elevator ride to the penthouse while my mind did a few laps around the logic tree. It kept landing on the same exact branch: This man turned me into a ball of hormones, where logic had no clout. I wanted him. I wanted him in a way that defied rational thought or a need for self-esteem.

Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.

We entered the suite, and I tried to keep from gawking like the middle-class apartment dweller that I was. Expensive things, wealth, they never mattered much to me—I was too busy worrying about things that really mattered, I suppose—but this hotel was truly beyond the luxury I’d ever known. Gray and red modern furniture; expensive-looking paintings; large, open living room; and flat screen TV the size of my entire apartment. All overlooking the city.

He proceeded to the bar in the corner. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Got a Snuggie and some Old Navy UGG knockoffs?

I made my way to the couch facing the panoramic window overlooking the shimmering city dusted with snow. With as much grace as I could muster, I sat and tried to hide how nervous he made me.

He quickly returned and handed me another dirty martini. “Hope it’s to your standards.”

I took a tiny sip. It was god-awful. “It’s perfect. Thanks.” I flashed a forced smile, thankful that I’d finally found at least one teeny-tiny flaw in the man.

“So.” He sat down next to me, incredibly close. I felt my heart begin to thump wildly in my chest.

“I sense I make you anxious, Penelope. Are you certain you wish to be here?”

I took a large swig, feeling the vodka sear its way down my throat. I turned my body to more easily see his face.

Mistake.

He made me absolutely tongue-tied. And my reaction to him, simply put, was unknown territory for me.

Yes. I’d dated men before. I’d even managed to have two relationships. One when I was seventeen and the other when I was twenty-two. Each lasted about a year, but even in the “I’m so into you” phases of those relationships, I’d never felt so lacking in control over my emotions. Maybe that’s what excited me about Kinich—Nick—still can’t decide—he made me feel like…like…not me.

Escape.

I craved it.

“Yes,” I finally replied after several moments of silence. “I want to be here.”

He reached out with his hand, but then jerked it away when the door buzzed. He made a little growl. It was so sexy, that my ni**les instantly perked.

He got up and headed for the door. I heard the low rumble of voices, then the door closing.

Kinich returned with a bottle of Dom Pérignon in a silver wine bucket and placed it on the glass coffee table in front of us.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“A debt being paid.”

“Sorry?”

“I bet my sister that she could not have a party without the police being called.”

“You mean the party last night?” I recalled Cimil mentioning something about a policeman-Twister mishap.

“Fifty arrests this time. She topped her record.”

Somehow, I wasn’t so surprised. Nor did I really care for details; I didn’t want to talk about his crazy, scary sister.

He gestured toward the bottle. “Would you like a glass?’

Since his martini could melt the chrome off a bumper, I accepted. I’d actually never tried Dom Pérignon.

He poured two glasses and took his spot next to me. Close. So very, very close. Once again his eyes set on my face and he stared.

The intensity made me squirm. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

“Like you can’t decide if you want to throw me out or kiss me.”

Crap! I can’t believe I said that. Dork.

He didn’t flinch. “Because, that is exactly what I am thinking.”

A lump stuck in my throat. I looked away as I tried to clear it.

I took a large sip of my champagne and then met his gaze, pound for pound, note for note, unspoken word for word. “So. What have you decided?”

He sipped his champagne and nodded at the glass, approving its taste.

My heart raced a million miles an hour.

What would he say?

Wait. What am I doing trying to seduce this man? I was Penelope Trudeau. A normal, everyday person, with normal everyday looks. I worked for minimum wage plus tips and lived in a world so different from his. Not to mention he was shopping for a “baby-mama.” This was silly.

Suddenly, panic overtook me. I stood up. “I made a mistake coming here.”

Within the space of a breath, his large body caged me, and his full, delicious lips were over mine. His hot, sweet tongue slipped in my mouth, instantly sending a delicious current of flutters and tingles straight down the center of my body, between my legs.

I wanted this. I wanted this so badly. It was better than my dream. Every cell and nerve ending lit up with a tension I knew wouldn’t abate until I had this man deep inside me. It was primal and needy and liberating all rolled into one erotic mess.

A tiny moan escaped my lips as my core did wild cartwheels. Image after image of how I wanted to explore his body, of how I wanted him to take me, pummeled my mind. It was so damn intense that I needed to catch my breath.

I planted my palms on his hard chest and pulled away. “What was that?” I panted.

He nuzzled my neck. “I believe it is what people call…chemistry.”

He pulled me closer, and I had no doubt that the hardness jutting from his groin was anything but chemistry. It was the timeless, primal call of biology.

His mouth, hot and demanding, returned to mine as the room began to spin.

***

The next morning, I slowly stretched my deliciously sore body while luxuriating in the softness of the silky sheets beneath me and the warm, oh-so-very-naked, well-built man snuggled to my side.

My heart fluttered when I opened my eyes and found Nick sleeping next to me, his bed-play-mussed, golden brown hair sweeping to one side across the pristine white pillow. His heavenly eyes were closed, allowing me to study the golden lashes fanning out against his bronzed face, looking like tiny threads of caramelized sugar. He was a picture of exquisite male perfection.

I sighed and resisted the urge to kiss his exposed, chiseled chest—yes, yes, perfectly tanned like the rest of him (nude sunbather?)—and stroke the perfectly formed swells of his biceps, one of which was attached to the arm draped over my waist.