Page 75 of Revenge Honeymoon

“Yeah, it’s a traditional French dish. The rat serves it in the movie.”

He scanned his memory banks for the last time he watched an animated movie. “I vaguely remember it.”

She gasped. “But it was the cutest movie ever.”

“I kinda suck at remembering movie plots—unless it’sIndiana JonesorStar Wars.”

“Well,” she suggested, “then we’ll have to watch it together.”

Wait? Was she saying there was some kind of down-the-road thinking? Could it be more than a short-term cruise thing?

The elevator door opened. It was empty.

“After you.” Max ushered her inside.

Emily gracefully stepped in. The dress molded to her every curve—butt, hips, thighs. Like a Greek goddess.

The door closed behind them. She leaned against the railing and smiled. Somehow the mild curve of her lips drew him to her. He narrowed the distance between then, touched her bare shoulder, and then slid his fingers into her hair.

“Max?” Her eyes were dark and limpid.

“I have to kiss you.” He leaned in until he was lost in those eyes. “Is that okay?” At that moment everything in him held back waiting for her answer.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

His breath stirred a wisp of hair across her perfect forehead.

“Oh, yes.” Her answer was a whisper.

He touched his lips to hers. Their plush, pillowy softness made him think of white puffy clouds in the sky. The taste of her was minty and sweet, as if she’d sucked on a peppermint candy. A thrum of desire rippled through him and hit at his core.

This woman had captured him like no one else.

His hands roamed down her body from her naked shoulders to her nipped in waist. She was warm and alive beneath him. His tongue dipped into her mouth to taste her more deeply.

When her arms curled around his neck, and she let out a little whimper, he thought he might lose control right there.

The elevator dinged.

His hands stilled on her body, and he softly cursed the man who hadn’t built enough floors into their cruise ship.

Emily’s chest moved up and down, as if she’d run a hundred-yard dash. When he made a move to break the kiss, she pressed a hand against the back of his neck to keep their mouths together. She tilted her head in the opposite direction. He followed her lead. The kiss grew frantic and hot and messy.

His groin ached.

Where was the down button? Why bother eating dinner?

The door opened.

“Ahem, monsieur?” A voice interrupted their world made for two.

Max couldn’t focus. He broke off the most passionate kiss of his life and asked, “What?”

Emily’s hands drifted away. She covered her mouth and froze.

“Keeling reservation for two?” The maître d’ straightened his glasses and gave a quick smile, as if it was totally normal to see two people making out in the elevator.

Max faced the intruder and cleared his throat. “Uh, yes.” Why didn’t he tell the guy to scram, hit the ‘close door’ button, and spend the next hour or two tasting every inch of Emily’s body? That would be dinner enough for him.

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