Rachael Johns - The Kissing Season

It was quickly extinguished by the one cell of common sense in her body. He might not have a wife but that didn’t mean he was “available.”

And she certainly was not.

Her hand fell to her still-flat belly, to the tiny life she would already do everything to protect. She straightened and walked around the desk. “Well, I think most of our beds fit that description, so perhaps we should take a stroll around the showroom and see if any appeal to you?”

“Sounds like a plan.” That grin again. Argh .

Hannah stepped in front of him so she couldn’t be bamboozled anymore by his killer smile and led the way to the front of the showroom. “This here is our local range. All these beds—” she swept her arm through the air like a model on some corny television quiz show “—are crafted with timber from Western Australian jarrah, karri or tuart trees. Many of our local clients like that aspect and prefer them to imported woods.”

“I can see why. They are very beautiful.” He ran his hand along the foot of one of the beds and Hannah actually shivered as if he’d run his hand up her spine instead.

Ridiculous.

“Of course, you don’t sound very local so you may be more interested in some of our international woods,” she said, trying to divert her mind from all things physical. From his hands and lips and the way they’d feel traversing the planes of her body.

He chuckled. “I’m Aussie born and bred, but my father is as Italian as they come and I’ve spent a lot of time working overseas the last few years.”

Italian . Her knees went weak. The French were known to be the most romantic nationality in the world, but she preferred Italians. She’d had an Italian boyfriend while she was traveling in Europe, and he’d always have a special place in her heart. They had that bad-boy element combined with irresistible charm that she’d always been such a sucker for. Had always been, as in the past tense.

Although his gray shirt, a slightly loosened tie with ships, of all things, scattered over it and his sweet, boyish smile didn’t scream bad boy to her. She frowned, perplexed, as she tried to work him out.

“Is it okay to test it?” His dreamy voice snapped her out of her reverie.

“Sure, sure.” She cleared her throat, hoping she’d cough out some of this craziness. There was absolutely no need to try to get inside his head. “How about I let you have a look around without breathing down your neck?”

He stepped a little closer, so he was just outside the boundaries of personal space. “Sweetheart, you can breathe down my neck any time.”

Good God . She swallowed, grappling with the thought that she should reprimand him for being so presumptuous as to call her sweetheart while at the same time positively sweltering at the thought of her breath on his neck. Or vice versa. She wasn’t fussy.

Somehow she managed to say, “I’ll be at the desk if you need any further assistance,” before she turned—and fled.

It wasn’t Elliot’s policy to leave potential customers on their own in the showroom, but neither was drooling or freaking them out by staring in a stalker-ish manner. And unfortunately she seemed quite capable of doing both. She needed a few seconds to pull herself together, to perhaps eat her gingerbread man and get some much-needed sugar into her bones. She felt light-headed and suddenly realized this dizziness wasn’t a result of her customer’s sparkling presence, or even her pregnancy. She probably just needed something to eat.

Shoving the cookie in the drawer of the desk between stealing tiny mouthfuls, she watched as the tall, tanned customer prowled about the showroom. He stopped at almost every bed, rubbing his chin as he gave it careful consideration. So far he hadn’t sat on any to test them and she wondered if perhaps they didn’t have anything he liked. Swallowing the last morsel of sweetness, she was about to get up and ask if he’d be interested in ordering an individually designed bed when he kicked off his black shoes, no doubt Italian, and flopped back onto a bed in the very middle of the showroom.

She stared, warmth filling her and her lips curling into a helpless grin as he rolled back and forth across the bed. He wiggled about, mucking up the crimson quilt set that adorned the bed. He left no corner of the bed untested. He stretched out, puffed up the pillows and then clasped his hands behind his neck. She’d never witnessed anyone testing a bed in such a thorough manner. She was mesmerized, bewitched. Her hormones were banding together to form a positively hot pool of desire right where it mattered.

Until he stood right up in the middle of the bed and began to jump up and down.

On no! Her hand flew to her mouth in shock and she knocked her bottle of water over in the process. She let the water trickle out onto the desk, her mind focused on another problem entirely. Such as what would Luke say if he returned this minute? Trust her customer to choose to manhandle the most expensive bed in the store.

“No! Stop!” The words tumbled out of her mouth as she leaped out of her seat and made a mad dash to the bed. Elliot’s beds were renowned for being solidly crafted but they weren’t designed for two-hundred-pound men to treat as nothing more than a child’s trampoline.

She reached the edge of the bed. “That’s not how you test beds.” Even as she spoke, the hilarity of the situation sparked a bubble of laughter deep within. She struggled, failing dismally, to keep her amusement a secret.

“You’re absolutely right,” he said, staring right into her eyes and catching her laughter like a disease. “Testing a bed definitely requires two people.”

Before she could guess his mischievous intentions, he’d flopped down into a seated position, leaned forward to grab her hands and hauled her onto the bed beside him—on top of him, in fact. Hannah’s insides twisted, rocked and praised the Lord as if she’d just indulged in a whole block of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolate. She didn’t have time to wrap her mind around the idea that what he was doing to her wasn’t appropriate in the slightest; all she could think about was the tenderness of her breasts pressed into his chest, the feel of his long muscular thighs against hers, his deliciously male scent and the infectious grin on his face.

He rolled over, taking her with him until she was underneath and he was on top, gazing down at her eyes and lips as he held her head between his hands as if she were the most precious thing on earth. She licked her lips, all the while moving her eyes over his face, taking in every single detail and cursing the heavens above for not having met this face three months earlier. Time seemed to stand still; her heart stopped working as he took forever to drop his lips to hers.

But when he did...oh when he did...Hannah forgot everything she’d promised herself on the long flight back from Vegas. His hand swept down the side of her head, her body, and cupped her buttocks toward him as his tongue slipped between her lips and explored. She kissed him back, sucking, nibbling, delighting in him for as long as her conscience allowed.

Then, after about five minutes in this stranger’s passionate embrace, something hard pressed against her belly. Oh Lord, was that an erection she felt? His erection? Alarm bells sounded loud and clear in her head. What the hell was she doing kissing a potential client in Elliot’s showroom? Or a rapist? Not that she knew much about rapists, but she watched the news, they were out there. As if sensing her sudden retreat, he did something illegal with his tongue, making her bones melt, leaving her wanting a lot more than one kiss.

Hell, Hannah!

Never mind the rapist, what the heck was she doing kissing anyone? Horrified and shamed by her wanton actions, she gave him a hard shove. He barely moved with her effort but his eyes blinked open and his lips leaped back from hers as he scanned her face.