Seduced The Unexpected Virgin - By Emily McKay Page 0,48

up the shirt. Christ, did she really think he was going to walk out on her without even talking about this? What kind of selfish SOB did she think he was?

He swiped the shirt off the floor and shrugged into it as he strode back to the bed. She’d risen onto her knees and still held the white sheet clutched to her chest. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, a luxuriant tumble of dark waves. She couldn’t have looked more exotically sexual if she’d been posed for a photo shoot. The image was all the more enticing because he knew she was naked beneath that sheet. Because he now knew every luscious curve of her body, every fragrant hollow, every sensitive valley.

He tried to pull his attention away from her and button his shirt, but he couldn’t pull his gaze from her and the buttons kept slipping out of his fingers. Sitting like that, she looked fit for a pinup poster.

And she was a virgin. Or rather, she had been.

Apparently, his brain could handle only one complex task at a time, and deciphering the motives of one obstinate female was taxing his limited abilities. He gave up on the buttons and thrust his hand through his hair instead.

Finally, he forced out the question that was choking him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She blinked, either surprised by his query or by the fact that he was still there. “About…” It seemed like the word was on the tip of her tongue, but she pulled it back, finishing with mulish stubbornness. “About what?”

So, she was going to force him to say it. Did she really think there was any chance he’d missed the obvious? Of course, he had missed all the signs of the obvious. Or misread them.

“About. Being. A virgin.” He bit out the words not bothering to keep his frustration from his voice.

Her chin bumped up defiantly and when she spoke her clipped tone echoed his. “Because, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Not a big—” He broke off, ran a hand through his hair. Again. And sucked in a deep breath. Again. And tried to speak more calmly. Again. “You were a virgin. You’d never had sex before. Ever. There’s no way that’s not a big deal.”

He studied her expression as he spoke, taking in every nuance of her expression. He saw the uncertainty that flickered across her face. The moment of doubt. Saw her mustering her defenses. And even saw what might have been a faint sheen of tears before she blinked them away.

“Christ, Ana, I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” she ordered, whatever vulnerability he’d seen in her gaze was instantly gone. She climbed from the bed, giving the sheet a vicious tug to free it from the bottom of the bed so it came with her.

How the hell was he supposed to respond to that?

She didn’t give him much of a chance to reply, but carefully draped the sheet around her body and stalked off toward the bathroom. He made a step to follow her, only to find the door soundly slammed in his face.

He scanned the room in which he’d been left alone. He hadn’t exactly been in the mood to notice the decor before now. Art deco–style furniture—the kind that could be bought inexpensively at antique stores—had been sanded down and painted a funky bold palette of sunny-yellow, lime-green and bright turquoise. There was a headboard, a dresser and a wardrobe. The linens were a creamy white with colorful throws. The overall effect was somehow a perfect reflection of her personality. Bright, determined, with a depth and complexity that stemmed from its very simplicity.

The one thing he didn’t see was a closet door. Which meant it was probably on the other side of the bathroom. She’d have the chance to get dressed, as well as time to leap to all sorts of conclusions about his emotional state.

He crossed to the door and rapped his knuckles on the door frame. “Come on out, Ana.”

There was no response.

“We need to talk about this.”

Again, there wasn’t the faintest rumble of an answer.

His frustration ratcheted up by several degrees. “You might as well come out, because I’m not leaving. Not until we talk about this, damn it.”

He bit back the string of curses he wanted to hurl at the offending door. He wanted to kick the damn thing. Or better yet, to kick it down. But what he really wanted to do was apologize. Which she’d ordered him not

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