Breakfast on Tuesday

6. Wild girl

"Women like me?" I sneered, my eyes blinking faster than a dead bird falling from the sky. "What does that even mean?"

Out of all the guys in the world, I had to be attracted to the one guy who had a thing against smart and beautiful 'American' women with a tendency toward grouchiness.

Dante frowned, seeming to need a moment to find the right words before he spoke. His silence pressed against my ears and I could hear the gears grinding in his anti-American mind.

Eventually, those beautiful lips of his parted and the garbage that came spewing out of his sinful mouth was wrong in every sense. "I meant women who are party animals, who love and live for the thrill, the booze, the drugs. The type of woman that is so fucking crazy, she's fun. One look at you and I can tell that you're the eat-a-man-alive type. Your eyes are too bright, your pupils are dilated, and that right there is the recipe for fucking trouble."

I blinked again and my jaw nearly dropped to the floor. Well damn. How in the world had he formed that twisted impression of me?

Oh, right. He thought I was a drunk American girl who had been partying all night and had crashed my bike into him in a drunken rage.

Of course.

And if my pupils were bright and dilated, that was because they liked what they saw. My ears, on the other hand, could do with a cleanout after hearing Dante's absurd impression of me.

Before Dante, I'd gotten a thousand excuses from men as to why they didn't want to go on a second date with me — not that there were that many first dates, maybe two or three dates in the last two years. I was either too grumpy, too introverted, too serious, or too smart for them.

But too wild? Too fun? That was a first. His assumption of who I was, was pretentious and wildly ridiculous. I didn't even consider it funny.

"You think I could eat you alive? Me?" I asked incredulously. Why was that the only part ringing in my ears? Dude had practically accused me of being a pot-headed alcoholic. Why wasn't I all up in arms about that?

He closed the distance between us, his body heat engulfing me once more. "I know your type," he said slowly. "Innocent at first glance," he traced my bottom lip with his thumb, his brown-green eyes drilling into me, "but so uncontainable when you get your way. You're the type of woman that once you sink your claws into a man, he could kiss the thought of ever wanting another woman goodbye."

"And how is that a bad thing?" I demanded against his hand.

Who knew that manly fingers gently caressing a woman's lips was such a sensual act? I burned to feel his lips against mine instead, but I had no choice but to settle for his fingers for now. The same fingers that were tightly gripping my throat earlier.

I angled my head to meet his gaze head-on, and it only served to press my lip against his thumb furthermore. If only I was brave enough to steal a kiss, maybe that would put an end to this foolish yearning.

His eyes flicked down to my lips. "Obsession is a bad thing, cariño. In his eyes, you are not capable of doing anything wrong. He'll follow you down a dark and dangerous path without blinking twice. He will cross lines he never thought he'd cross. Every breath he takes will be for you, and soon enough he'll turn into a shell of himself and the man he used to be before he met you."

"Speaking from experience?"

He clenched his jaw and his finger dropped from my lip. Dammit. I was getting into this whole stare into each other's soul while I touch your lips with my skillful fingers thing that only seemed to happen in romance movies. Not to girls like me.