Page 33 of His Innocent Seduction

‘I think fatherhood is about more than biology,’ I say quietly. ‘Yes, theoretically, there is a man out there who shares my DNA. Maybe I even have half-siblings.’ My heart lurches at that—I wished, at Mum’s funeral, I had someone who could stand beside me and know what I was feeling, who could feel that pain. ‘But he chose not to know me. I think he’d resent it if I turned up on his doorstep and wanted to forge some kind of relationship.’

‘You’re talking about him. His rights. What he wants. I’m asking what you want.’

I expel a sigh. ‘I guess I want things to stay as they are.’

‘Why?’

Again, I’m reminded of what he must be like in court—formidable, dogged and determined. ‘Why not?’

He stares at me for another moment, then shrugs. ‘I think not knowing would kill me.’

‘Because you’re a control freak,’ I tease, sipping my champagne. It’s beautiful. Floral and delicate.

‘Am I?’

‘Sure. That can’t be news to you?’

He shakes his head slowly from side to side. ‘No.’

I’m filled with questions. A thousand of them. They bubble inside me, demanding answers, but something holds me back from asking them. I realise what it is minutes later, after I’ve been staring at him as though knowing every single detail of his body is now my life’s mission.

Michael Brophy is not a normal man. At least, he’s not like any man I’ve ever met. I fear the strength of my attraction to him because he is someone in whom I could lose myself utterly. And I’m not about getting lost. I’m not about relationships. I’m on the trip of a lifetime—I’m seeing the world. I’m being footloose and fancy-free for the first time in my life and nothing will get in the way of that.

Maybe, just maybe, if this dream was all my own, I would allow for some flexibility.

But I’m doing this for Mum—travelling as she was never able to. I owe it to her to do it properly.

So this is what it is—what we both agreed to. Sex. A fling. Fun. There’s no need to get too personal. I unclip my seat belt, renewed determination in my heart and mind. He’s watching me and it adds imperative to my movements. I push up, straddling him, almost spilling my champagne in the process.

He remains impassive but I feel his breathing and, more than that, I feel the spark in the air around us. I feel the energy and I know we are both equally beholden to desire. I might not have experience but I have brains and intuition and they are telling me that he’s as lost to this as I am.

‘You know, I’ve heard about this thing,’ I say, sipping my champagne, then leaning down and kissing him.

‘Yeah?’ His hands curve around my back; desire storms my body.

‘The Mile-High Club.’

His laugh is throaty. ‘What’s that all about?’ he teases, pushing the strap of my dress down and peppering my shoulder with kisses.

Embarrassment heats my cheeks but I ignore it. I know he likes to make me blush. I’m getting used to it. ‘Something about orgasms at high altitude being much more...stimulating.’

‘Really? You don’t say...’

‘Of course, I have no experience...’

He looks at me from hooded eyes. ‘Let’s see what we can do about that.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

I WANT TO rip the damned dress from her body; I’ve wanted to since she stepped out of the limousine and a breeze lifted it just enough to expose her slender ankles and the hint of calves to my watchful eyes. It is an intriguing shade of green, dark and mossy, but it seems to make her eyes dance with magic. It is a beautiful dress but if I had my way Millie Davis would be naked every minute of the time we are together.

I want to rip the dress from her body, but I don’t. I crouch down before her and start with her shoes. Beige leather sandals. I unclick first one, my hand curving around her ankle as I slide it from her foot, then the other, pulling it from her softly, placing it on the floor beside her. My eyes lift to hers and I catch the hem of her dress in the palm of my hand. It’s soft and smells like her, like lavender and vanilla and everything sweet and kind in this world.

I lift the dress higher until I reach her knees, where I let my hand curve around the back of her leg. I feel rather than see or hear the way she catches her breath. Her responsiveness is hot

as fuck, all the more so because I know I’m the first man to make her feel any of these things. Am I just a little hard for that fact? For the fact that I will always be her first? Even when she’s in Paris, gone, and we’ve lost contact, these memories of me will live in her brain, her mind, her body—for always.

Show me a man who wouldn’t want that.

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