Page 214 of The Billionaire's Secret
"You?" my voice comes out breathless.
"What are you doing here?" he snaps at the same time.
"I asked the question first," I huff.
"I am not in the habit of answering queries posited by women who look like they’ve been dragged in from a storm."
"What?" My jaw drops. I am gaping, and it’s not only because the words complete the image of the man I’ve loathed from the moment I first saw him at the wedding of one of my best friends. "Dr. f’ing Weston," I snarl.
"That’s Doc Kincaid to you." He yawns.
Of course, his surname would have to have the word kink in it in some form. "And are you?" I scowl.
"What?"
"A real doctor?"
He raises his hand, stabs the cigar I only now realize he holds between his fingers between his lips. "Do you want to find out?" He looks me up and down, "I could give you a thorough examination." His gaze settles on my breasts, slides down to my core. "Make sure everything is in working order.” He snickers.
Heat fizzes low in my belly. Hell, with that kind of hotness, this man could clearly get my cake batter to rise in seconds…Wait, did I just think that?
I make a gagging noise in my throat, "Does that line actually work?"
"You’d be surprised." His lips curl.
Oh, that smirk. My stomach seems to bottom out… Or maybe that’s because I haven’t eaten since lunch time.
He draws on his cigar, cheeks hollowing for an instant, before he puffs out smoke. Cherries, cloves…cinnamon. Yum. My mouth waters, "How would it be to bake a cigar dessert?"
"What?" He frowns.
Shit, did I just say that aloud?
"Nothing," I mumble, "and you haven’t answered my question."
His voice lowers to a hush, "I’ll answer yours if you answer mine." Another shiver ladders up my spine. Howdid he manage to make that seem like an innuendo?
"Is everything a trade to you?"
"You should try it." He smiles, a full-blown grin that highlights the laughter lines that stretch from the corners of his eyes. I mean, could this guy be any more perfect? I allow my gaze to take in the breadth of his shoulders, that gorgeous neck, the swell of those hard biceps, the smattering of hair on those forearms—No, do not look lower; don’t do it—to the splint that he sports around middle finger of his right hand.
"What happened to you?" I scowl.
"This?" He raises his middle finger to show me the bird by default, "I fractured my middle finger a car accident."
"How convenient," I scoff. "You can announce your jerk-face nature without speaking a word."
He chuckles, "You always this nice to injured men?"
"You always go around flashing women?"
"You enjoyed the view." He raises that goddam cigar again to his mouth, wraps those beautiful lips around the smoke stick. And I'd love to get my mouth around his fat, juicy cigar too.
No, no. Enough with the terrible metaphors. But, hello, can you blame me?I am only a woman standing in front of a man—a naked, gorgeous as hell, stud muffin of a male who pulls the cigar from his mouth, and blows out a cloud of fragrant smoke from between pursed lips.
Moisture melts my core. My toes curl.
Jesus, there should be a law against him using his mouth like that. Of course, I could find other uses for that mouth of his too…No, no no, why are you insisting on going back down that route?
