Virgin Daiquiri - Elise Faber Page 0,2

know. I didn’t kiss men. Hell, I was too shy to even talk to men.

But here I was, in a bar.

In a man’s arms.

And I didn’t know his name.

“You have to let me go,” I said, wriggling in his hold, trying to free myself. I watched the beautiful man blink, deep pools of unfathomable dark eyes coming back into focus after a moment. “You don’t know who you’re kissing,” I continued blithely. “You don’t—”

His arms opened.

I stumbled back a step.

“I—” I shook my head. “I—”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, voice placid, face expressionless, eyes over my shoulder. “Not with you.” He pointed to the door. “You should go.”

Slice.

Rejection.

I knew that feeling intimately, had felt it frequently.

So, I didn’t cry or wither or let my face show how deeply that wounded. Instead, I bundled it up with the rest of the pain from my past and shoved it deep down. Then I bent to retrieve my purse, it somehow having fallen to the floor without me noticing.

Probably because even though I’d been kissing a stranger, the feel of his mouth, his lips, his tongue . . . were more incredible than anything I’d ever experienced with Frank.

I’d kissed just two men.

Not hard for the one in front of me to beat Frank.

Not only because Frank was a total jerk, but because Frank and I had been bumbling teenagers when we’d been together.

Sigh.

“Don’t worry,” I said, pushing Frank from my mind. “I’ll go.”

“Good.”

The short, sharp syllable made my filter disappear.

Or at least, that was the only reason I could think for my normally shy and locked-down nature to have poofed away like fairy dust, the next words out of my mouth being a total blurt.

“And I definitely won’t come back and drool over you all night again,” I snapped. “I certainly won’t sit at the bar for three hours and hope that you notice me. Because I get it. Beautiful men like you aren’t into dumpy, fat girls like me.”

His eyes shot to mine, going wide, gorgeous lips parting, but I wasn’t going to let him tell me to go again.

I spun for the door.

I was going to see myself out. I was going to forget about extending ridiculous invitations to dinner, about kissing gorgeous men whose names I didn’t know.

I’d been humiliated enough for a lifetime.

Frank had seen to that.

Now I’d seen to that.

Lifting my chin, I reached for the handle.

Then found myself being hauled back against a strong, broad chest.

“You’re beautiful. It’s not you—”

I snorted, shoving at his arm. “Okay, let me stop you before you finish that It’s not you, it’s me nonsense.” Another shove, which meant I managed to loosen his grip all of a millimeter before it banded tightly around my middle again. “I’ve got the picture. Let me flounce off with an ounce of my dignity intact, will you?”

“No.”

Cool.

Let me start off by saying I didn’t usually condone violence, but I’d been pushed to my limits, and this man, the one who’d given me the best kiss of my life—yes, it was only the best kiss of two total men, but I also didn’t have to be an idiot who’d only kissed two men to know that it still had been a really good freaking kiss—was holding me firm, wasn’t letting me escape my embarrassment—which had reached critical mass—and I snapped.

I tilted my chin down and bit him on the forearm.

Not lightly.

He cursed, arms falling open, and I shoved forward lurching for the door, grasping the handle and yanking it open.

The last thing I heard as I stumbled out of the office was the cursing cut off and his rumbling voice chase me down the hall as I fled.

“So, what time is dinner?”

I’d entered the bar chastising myself for being an idiot who left her purse behind, and I left that same bar, chastising myself for still being an idiot.

Albeit this time, one who’d left some of her dignity behind.

Three

Brent

I glanced down at my arm, at the two perfect crescents of teeth marks, and felt my lips curve up.

I shouldn’t be amused by the fact that the woman had just bitten me.

But, one, I’d had it coming.

And, two, I’d had it coming.

First, for kissing her. Even though she’d stood there under the mistletoe looking as sweet as a Christmas cookie—cheeks a little flushed, blue-green eyes darkening, lips parted, tongue darting out. She’d kissed me back.

But sweet girls like that didn’t kiss me.

They were scared of me.

I was a big, black guy. I was built,