Ines stared at him, her heart doing a slow, heavy, painful beat. She was trapped. His hands were on the desk on either side of her, his body a wall of heat in front of her. She was pinned by her own inquisitiveness.
And she had just asked the most dangerous question on her list.
"What does it feel like to kiss a woman?"
Carcel did not move. He did not pull back. If anything, he leaned in, just a fraction of an inch, his voice a low, dark rumble.
"What does it feel like to kiss a woman?" he repeated.
It was not a question. It was a statement. He was acknowledging her query, and the sound of it, spoken in his deep, masculine voice, in this dark, silent room, made it sound a thousand times more scandalous than when she had written it.
"It depends," he said, his voice rough, "on the woman he is kissing."
