Best Man for Hire (Entangled Lovestruck) (Front and Center) by Tawna Fenske

words. Generally speaking, that’s three to four times more words than you would have uttered if I’d sat here quietly with my hands in my lap.”
    She stared at his hands, distracted by the size of them and the thought of what they could do to her and almost missed the fact that he was still talking. “Instead of doing that, I nodded as you spoke—three times in quick succession. It’s a visual cue that lets you know I’m listening, I’m engaged, and I want you to keep talking.”
    “Right.”
    He leaned closer, near enough now that she could feel his shoulder brushing hers and the heat radiating from his chest, and she wanted to fall into that warmth. She forced herself to keep breathing.
    “Another thing I did was not speak,” he continued. “I didn’t interrupt, I didn’t ask questions, I just sat here. People don’t like long silences—especially people who are uncomfortable with what they’re saying—so they’ll usually keep talking to fill the silence. Women in particular have an urgent need to fill silence.”
    His face was scant inches from hers now, and she watched his mouth in seeming slow motion as it formed the words “urgent need to fill.” His pupils were wide and round, swimming in a sea of blue gray. He had faint stubble on his jawline, and she ached to know what it would feel like scraping against the hollow of her throat, the hollow between her legs—
    “The other thing I did,” he murmured. “Is invade your personal space. It’s one of the most disarming techniques.”
    She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “You don’t say.”
    “Is it working?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Good. It’s usually pretty effective.”
    “Oh?” Her voice was high and breathy and sounded distant to her own ears. Her blood was pounding hard in her head, in her fingertips, between her legs. Grant’s eyes held hers, the tips of his fingers grazing the fine hairs on her forearms so lightly it might have been an accident.
    She lunged for him, not sure if this was part of his plan, and not really caring. She had to have his mouth on hers, his hands on her body, his legs tangled with hers under the table or under a set of cool, sweaty sheets.
    God, she wanted him.
    He kissed her back, his lips softer than she imagined they’d be. He was slow at first, gentle, a man who knew how to take his time. It only made her hungrier. She urged him on, pressing her body against his as she cursed the damn chair arm that kept her from climbing into his lap and grinding against him like some kind of sex-starved animal.
    His mouth moved down, and Anna closed her eyes to savor the scrape of his stubble rough against her cheeks, her lips, her throat, her shoulders. He seemed to be kissing her everywhere at once, his mouth and tongue hot and wet and so goddam perfect.
    Of course he’s a perfect kisser, too , her brain pointed out, sounding slightly snarky about it.
    Not that the rest of her was complaining. One of his hands had drifted to her left thigh, fingertips toying with the hem of her sundress. He stroked her there, in no particular hurry, the lightness of his caress making her ache for more. Anna groaned as his touch grew firmer, his palm closing over her knee, engulfing it. His fingers stroked the tendon at the bend in her leg, taking their time, making her crazy. She kissed him harder, urging him on.
    He moved the heel of his hand up just a fraction of an inch, sliding the hem of her dress out of his way. Anna raked her nails over the back of his skull, begging him without words to keep going. She let her knees fall apart, wondered if that was too forward, then decided she didn’t care. She wanted him to touch her everywhere.
    As if reading her thoughts, Grant let his other hand drift to her bare shoulder. His fingers tangled with the spaghetti strap on her sundress, slipping it down to reveal the curve of newly bared skin. He covered the flesh with his mouth, laying a trail of kisses along her collarbone. Anna cursed