helplessly inhaled the sweet, spicy scent of roses and lavender into his lungs, his nostrils flaring as her fragrance infused his brain, resulting in an instant high.
His hand clamped down on her arm. “Come with me.”
Her wide, green eyes met his and he instinctively gazed into her soul. Where was she headed? Heaven or Hell. Not that he really cared overly much as long as she detoured to his bed first.
But something was different here.
Killian drove deeper…and saw nothing, felt nothing, other than an overwhelming desire to know more about her. That had never happened before. He probed further and still nothing. It was like her life hadn't been written yet. He hardened.
“What?” she asked, her voice husky and seductive.
“You're here for me,” he stated.
“I am?” Artfully shaped brows rose in surprise.
“You just don't know it yet.”
Her hair was that dark bewitching shade of red that strained to burgundy. Rare and rich and thick with waves, it cascaded down to her back. He had the irresistible urge to twist the length around his arm and carry her off by her hair. It had been a long time since he'd embraced his beast, but with her he wanted to roar, mark, and take. Instead, he pressed his hand to her lower back and guided her toward his table, the strands of her silky hair caressing his forearm. He bit back a groan, and needed to know how it felt to have her hair caress other parts of him.
“Is that like some kind of come-on?” she asked, her bee-stung lips lifted in a challenge.
Oh, you are so on.
“Would you rather I say something boring like, 'Can I buy you a drink?'“
“Actually, yes. I would prefer a drink to the manhandling,” she said.
“All right. We'll play it your way.” And then we'll play it mine. He dropped his hand from the curve of her back and immediately missed the connection.
He held out a chair for her to sit. “What would you like to drink?” There was no question. He was buying this woman a drink, and then later he was going to get lost in her.
“Uhm, wine?” She bit the bottom of her lip and seemed surprised that she'd gathered her skirts and sat in the chair he'd offered.
He wasn't surprised. She emanated heat, a ripeness, yet, there was shyness that rode along with the others, making her even more intriguing.
Slowly he folded his tall length in the seat across from her. “You don't sound sure of what you want.” He needed her to know exactly what was happening here. A woman like her didn't enter a bar in the middle of the day unless she needed a man. And while he was that man, and planned to do his best to talk her into seeing things his way, he never took what wasn't his to take.
“I don't drink much,” she admitted. “I mainly stick to wines that I make at home. I concoct a lovely rose petal infused wine.”
“Rose water?” Did that explain how heavenly she smelled? Did she bathe in it?
“No.” She gave him a slight husky laugh that quivered over him like the first brushes of a bow stroking the string of a violin. “A rose petal wine,” she continued. “It's very smooth and has this amazing floral finish.”
“I’d bet you'd have a fucking amazing floral finish.” The words were out of his mouth before he could swallow them.
She blinked, her jeweled-green eyes flashing with a mixture of uncertainty and interest. “You're bad, aren't you?” Suddenly her diffidence was gone.
“So bad.” He couldn't keep back the predatory smile. “So very bad that I'll be the best you've ever had.”
A breath escaped her in a rush and the interest sparking in her eyes flared to fascination. “Promise?”
His heart slammed in his chest and it was his turn to have the air rush out of his lungs.
The waitress chose that moment to return with the drink he'd already forgotten he'd ordered. “Is there anything else I can get you,” she asked, her demeanor much cooler than before.
“The lady will have an Orgasm,” Killian said.
“Can I have more than one?”
There she went again. He couldn't take his eyes off this enthralling woman who clenched her cream-colored wrap like a virgin, yet said such provocative things.
“Make that a Screaming Orgasm,” he ordered.
The waitress—whatever her name was, he'd forgotten already—left with a flounce of her short skirt.
Leaning across the table, he traced the lacy, scalloped edge of her top with his finger, thrilling at the