What happens when your heroine tries to talk herself into sleeping with the guy everyone but her knows is not the hero of the book? This, among other things.
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Katie kept rechecking her position, but it came out the same every time: she was in the penthouse suite of a swanky hotel, on a couch with the Sexiest Man Alive.
Officially the sexiest, according to People magazine. Judahs issue decorated her bedside table at home. He lounged on the cover in a white linen suit, looking thoroughly edible.
But that was back in Camelot. She was in Kentucky, and in Kentucky, in this suite, Judah Pratt was shirtless and disheveled, and he had one hand on her bare thigh. Their game of sexual one-upmanship had been drawing them closer together for the past ninety minutes, and now she had her legs across his lap, and she couldnt stop staring at his hand. The Sexiest Hand Alive. On her thigh.
He had really excellent fingernails, square and neat. Only a manicure gave you fingernails that nice. Did men get manicures? She thought maybe rich men did, but shed never known one to ask.
Yes, she was a little tipsy. Or drunk. Perhaps drunk would be the better word.
No, she wasnt drunk enough to ask him.
She and Judah had been doing shots of tequila. Quite a few shots of tequila. Knocking them back, theyd teased each other and swapped innuendo so outrageously that the sexual possibility shed been chasing since she met him in Chicago had become a sordid inevitability.
Bring it on. Under her dress, she wore the sexiest piece of lingerie shed ever owned. Hot-pink, satiny, and scandalously skimpy, the teddy caressed her skin every time she shifted on the couch. Her underwear was turning her on. That was good, right?
It had to be good. Because Judah Pratt, Sexiest Man Alive, was going to kiss her. Any second. And when he did, she was going to start to want him.
