Sheri WhiteFeather - Sleeping With Her Rival

“But the rain messed up your hair,” he lied. “I was just going to fix it.”

She huffed out a shallow breath, and he knew he’d made her nervous. A good kind of nervous. The sexy kind.

“My hair’s fine,” she said.

No, it wasn’t, he thought, itching to tousle it. The lady-of-the-manor style was too damn proper, too coiffed.

“Are you going to buy me dinner or not?” she asked.

“Sure. Let’s get our table.”

The hostess seated them in a fairly secluded booth. A snow-white candle dripped wax, and a single red rose bloomed in a bud vase, giving the rustic tabletop a touch of date-night ambience.

The waiter came by, offering cocktails. Gina declined a glass of wine, opting for iced tea instead. Flint went for an imported beer.

Silent, they studied their menus. Five minutes later, when the waiter returned with their drinks, Flint and Gina ordered the same meal. Or nearly the same meal, with the exception of a rare steak for him and a well-done cut for her.

Soon a basket of warm bread arrived. He reached out to offer her a slice at the same time she chose to get one for herself. But before their hands collided, she pulled back.

He took the lead, following his original plan. Tilting the basket toward her, he said, “Go ahead, Miss Barone. Or would it be all right if I called you Gina?”

She made her selection, then proceeded to lather it with whipped butter. “Gina is fine.”

He watched her take a bite. “And so is Flint,” he told her.

She swallowed and then made a pleasured sound, like a soft, sweet, bedroom murmur.

Amused, he reached for his beer. “Say it,” he said.

She glanced up. “Excuse me?”

“My name. Say my name.”

She gave him a curious look. “Flint.”

Enjoying himself, he bit back a grin. “That was pretty good, but it wasn’t quite right. You need to moan after you say my name, like you did after you ate the bread.”

Finally aware of his little joke, she shoved the basket toward him. “Stuff it, Flint.”

He flashed the grin he’d been hiding. “I couldn’t help it. I mean, here’s a woman who gets orgasmic over bread and butter.”

“I wasn’t orgasmic.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I was not.”

She glared at him from across the table, but her haughty expression fell short. When he stared at her, she became flustered, toying with the napkin on her lap.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

He studied her features, struck by those violet eyes and that full, lush mouth. “But you’re beautiful, Gina.” And he couldn’t stop the attraction, the heat, the sexual spontaneity rising in his blood.

She drew a ragged breath, and a shimmer of silence ensued.

Rain pounded against the building, and the flame on the candle danced between them, intensifying the moment.

Flint sent her a small, sensual smile. She was perfect for the scandal he had in mind.

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