Page 27 of Pleasure Games

“And if I was?” Luca asked, so close to her ear it tickled.

She shivered at the pleasant sensation, her hands hovering above the keyboard like they were as frozen as her email account would be if she failed too many more attempts. Jasmine shut the lid of the laptop, the turn of the conversation seeming more important than email at the moment.

She turned to face him. “I guess that’s your business.”

He handed her a glass. His gaze was as intense as ever, but something had changed. Something subtle. It wasn’t like he was searching; it was like he was trying to convey something. Something important. Something fierce.

Whatever it was, her body responded.

Hard.

Her lips parted and her mouth was suddenly dry. She wet her lips, and Luca’s searing gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering there. “Should I be ashamed of watching people make love?” His nostrils flared, as if he was a predator, scenting her. His gaze narrowed as it returned to hers, and the quirk of his lips was on the cynical side.

“No.” Jasmine shook her head, unable to break eye contact. “I don’t think so.”

He nodded and drank. When his stare focused elsewhere, Jasmine was able to take a sip of wine herself.

God, it was good. Smooth, like silk slipping down her throat...

“What kind of an American are you, Jasmine Sweet?”

“Huh?”

“There are stereotypes, you know. About Americans.”

“I’m sure there are.” Americans had plenty of stereotypes about the French, too.

It went both ways.

“So,” she said, raising a brow. “Are you going to tell me what they are?”

His nod was almost imperceptible. “There is the puritan American. Someone who thinks the body and bodily functions are dirty.”

Jasmine bit her lip.

“Is that you, Ms. Sweet?” He leaned forward.

She held her breath.

“Or...” He backed up and cocked his head to the side. “Are you the kind who enjoys being a woman, physically and sexually, but who pretends she doesn’t like sex because she’s ashamed of her pleasure?”

The breath that Jasmine finally dragged into her lungs was ragged. When Luca didn’t continue, Jasmine asked in a breathy voice, “Are those the only stereotypes you have for American women?”

Luca shrugged.

“What about...” Jasmine began. “The American woman who enjoys sex and isn’t afraid to admit it?”

“Does such a woman exist?”

“Oh, yes.” Jasmine set her glass down beside the computer and scooted closer to Luca. “What about the American who likes to try new things?” She reached for his face, wanting—no, needing—to know what his beard felt like against the tips of her fingers. Against her cheek. Her mouth.

As much as Jasmine was willing herself to be this bold, confident sex-venturer, her fingers still shook when she touched him. But she didn’t care. And he didn’t stop her.

Or turn away.

Or capture her hand and place it firmly in her lap.

No. He simply sat there and let her explore.

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