Hurts So Good Read Free Page B

commodities in her life that she'd long quit expecting to find. And she most certainly hadn't expected them from the man who'd been called schizophrenic by the tabloids.
    Nostalgia stirred, and bad as it was for the super scoop she wanted, she hoped that she, and his many detractors, had misjudged him.
    "The first three are fine... Neil. But that last one—"
    "Aw, c'mon, Andrea. Be a good sport. Let me help clean up. And it would surely be my pleasure to walk you home."
    "I'm talking about the kiss, and don't think for a minute I'm buying that innocent act of yours," she said sternly when he gasped dramatically. "Just a kiss? Uh-huh."
    "Just a kiss, nothing else. On my mother's grave"—he took a quick swig from the flask, wiped his mouth with his forearm, then held out the brandy—"I swear it."
    "Why do you want to kiss me?" she pressed, still not believing him.
    "Because I like to kiss, and I pride myself on being a connoisseur of mouths. They're all different, but yours is more different than most, and I'd really appreciate the chance to sample the contents. Nothing personal. I'm only looking to expand my resume. Surely, you can understand that."
    Her lips twitched with amusement. And anticipation. A kiss from Neil Grey? Mr. Hot Lips himself, whose signed glossy she'd drooled over while the other kids at the orphanage had gone wild over rock-and-roll musicians, and for whom she'd dared to turn the radio dial from a Top 40 station to a jazz station? He wanted to kiss her?
    "How is my mouth different?" And whose mouth had she inherited? Her mother's, her father's? One answer she'd never get. "Is it a good different or a bad different?"
    "Hmmm. Let's see. Open your lips a tad, chere.... That's perfect, just enough so I can see your teeth. Great teeth, by the way."
    "Great?" she repeated, trying not to move her lips while he studied them with what seemed to be detached interest. "But they're spaced a little in the front. I wish I'd had braces growing up. They're—"
    "Sexy, that's what. Damn sexy. There's just enough room for the tip of a tongue."
    Lord, she hoped he didn't ask for a peek at her tongue. What he might say about it—and its erotic possibilities—could have her begging for his kiss right there and then.
    He didn't. Instead, he slid a finger over her lips, and she felt her soft flesh quiver. Despite her urgent message to her tongue not to touch, it did. He tasted of salt skin flavored with liquor and smoke. He tasted delicious.
    "Curious tongue too," he said huskily. "Active little critter. Definitely an asset. Goes real nice with about the finest set of lips I ever checked out."
    Andrea pinched her lips together. He rubbed them with his thumb, then traced them with a feather-light stroke before pulling back with a satisfied nod.
    "Good muscle tone," he pronounced. "What's the longest kissing session you ever had?"
    "Well, I've never timed one, but maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes?" She was suddenly ready for the drink he'd offered, though she already felt rather woozy.
    "Practice makes perfect, and with such an incredible mouth, you should've had more practice than that. Stingy kissers who want to cut the fine art short rank with quitters and cheats in my book. How about you? Did you ever want to keep kissin' when some monsieur got antsy to move things along?"
    "Well... yes. How did you guess?"
    "I know men. And I know women. There's a reason why they're crazy about me. Tell the truth. You think it's the fame and fortune and a chance to get into my dancin' pants that have quite a reputation to please—or so said something I read. Used it for toilet paper, though I had a full roll."
    If it hadn't been for his slow, easy smile, she would have thought he was testing her. But he seemed to be laughing at himself and inviting her to join him. Maybe that was the source of his brash but fatal appeal.
    "Those reasons would be plenty for a lot of women."
    "Don't I know it. But it's not reason enough for the ones