It was plump—suckable—and presently painted with a sheer rosy gloss and curled into the faintest mockery of a smile.
Odd that he found that sexy, that he couldn’t wait to hear her so-called proposition and that, rather than gleefully reveling in her mortification last night, he’d been alternately preoccupied with wondering why such a vibrant woman had hooked up with a man who purposely chose not to have sex—what had happened to make her think that was a good idea? Tate had wondered—and thinking about swiftly remedying the unfortunate situation for her.
Repeatedly.
I’m horny, she’d said. I want to get laid. Powerful words, Tate decided, particularly coming from her, out of that mouth. They trumped any preconceived notions he’d had about her. She might look like she had it all together—slick as a firehouse pole—but there were some serious issues hidden behind that calm facade, that lazy, unconcerned, superior smile.
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