by Meg Tilly
She stepped past Rhys and placed the cheese board on the small table that was nestled between the two chaise longue chairs.
“Mm . . . Perfect,” he said, looking at what she’d brought and then up at her, his smile warm and uncomplicated. His hair was still damp from the shower he’d had after taking Samson for a run.
Rhys swung his long legs off the lounge chair, setting his feet on the wooden deck so they straddled an uncorked bottle of red wine and two elegant crystal wineglasses. He picked up a glass and tipped it toward her. “Wine?”
“Absolutely,” Eve said, feeling shy and hopeful all at once. Which was discombobulating, because she hadn’t felt like this since the early Levi days. Like the world was freshly washed and full of possibilities.
She watched him pour, the wine splashing into the wineglasses, the ruby-red color growing deeper and darker as more wine was added.
“Cheers.” He handed a glass to her, the slight brush of their fingertips causing electrical tingles to zing through her.
“Thanks.” Awareness vibrated in the air around them. She took a sip. It was an excellent bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Balanced. Complex. She could taste undertones of dark, savory fruit. “So good.” She waited for a second, enjoying the lingering rich finish, then took another sip. “Wow.”
“Glad you like it,” Rhys said. “It’s one of my favorite wines. A little mom-and-pop vineyard I discovered when I was shooting a film in Napa. It’s totally off the beaten track. No signage.” He took a sip of wine, head tipped back.
She watched him swallow, wanting to trace a parallel path of the wine’s journey.
And so she did.
She placed her wineglass on the side table and stepped in, her fingertips skimming the corded columns of his throat with the lightest of touches. The tanned skin beneath her fingers was warm. She could feel the slight prickle of stubble on the underside of his jaw, the upper portion of his neck. His gaze collided with hers, a multitude of emotions swirling—there was a hunger and wildness waiting to be released.
“Eve,” he murmured, her name on his lips sounding almost like a prayer.
She continued her exploration downward, until the tips of two of her fingers rested gently in the hollow of his throat.
She took another step closer, only inches separating them now. She could feel the heat of his body calling her. To resist would be as futile as iron filings thinking they could escape the lure of a neodymium magnet. She couldn’t help herself; she leaned forward and replaced her fingers with her mouth, her tongue continuing the caress her fingers had started.
His skin tasted of salt and wild midnight dancing under a full moon. He tasted of whiskey madness, sin, and sex, but innocence, too. He tasted like a man she wanted more desperately than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.
“Eve.” Her name on his lips again. A groan. A plea. A benediction.
He was the one who closed the final distance. Must’ve put his wineglass down because she felt the controlled strength of his hand slide around her waist, arching her upward. His other hand was looping silky strands of her hair around his fist, tugging her head back. Forcing her gaze to meet his, the heat and intent in his eyes unmistakable.
“You’re in trouble,” he murmured with a hint of a smile. Then he bent his head and laid claim to her mouth.
She could taste the wine on his lips, his tongue rough and silky, causing liquid lightning to course through her, to the very ends of her extremities. Her knees gave way, buckling under the onslaught, but before the ground could rise to greet her, he’d scooped her up.
As he moved, with her cradled against his chest, a slant of warm, yellow light shining through the kitchen window fell across his face, illuminating it against the night sky. And the expression on his face, the tender beauty of him made her want to weep.
Another step and his face was in shadow again, but the prior image was seared into her brain. She pressed her face against his chest, could feel hard muscle beneath the soft fabric of his charcoal-gray T-shirt, the thump of his heart against her cheek, his chiseled, hard body. She inhaled deeply. He smelled wonderful, like the forest after a hard rain.
His muscles contracted as he shifted his weight, using his foot to release the back of the chaise, and she heard the clunk as the teak wooden frame fell to a flattened position.
Then the night sky tilted again and she was laid out on the cushioned surface like a feast. He stood above her, sexy as hell.
“Come here,” she said, her voice a lower register than usual. Huskier. Full of need.
“Dammit.” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, his hands fisting at his sides. “Woman, I want you more than I want anything on God’s green earth. But if I join you there, I won’t want to stop.”
“Good,” she said, sitting up. She reached out and latched her forefingers in the front belt loops of his faded jeans, tugging him toward her. She wrapped her arms around his narrow waist, hugging him tight, as if in this way she could fuse her body to his. It wasn’t enough. More. She needed more. Skin against skin.
* * *
• • •
“YOU’RE SO DAMNED beautiful,” she murmured. “It’s not fair.” Her fingers, like heat-seeking missiles, flicked open the metal buttons of his jeans, one by one, their progress torturously slow.
A groan escaped his lips.
She peeled back his jeans, and he watched as her hands disappeared beneath the elastic waistband of his briefs. He sucked in a breath, wrestling for control, not wanting to spend himself the second her long artist’s fingers wrapped around his tool.
“Ahhh . . .” Her voice was barely more than a dandelion puff floating into the summer sky. He held his ass and his abdomen taut, everything clenched tight, trying not to embarrass himself as if he were a milk-on-the-cheeks virgin.
“Wait,” he ground out. “I don’t . . .” He grabbed her hands, stilled their sensuous progress.
“Don’t want me?” she said, her gaze rising from his crotch to his eyes, a knowing siren’s smile on her face.
“I don’t . . .” Shit. Her little finger had escaped his grip. She was tracing small swirls on the upper curve of his balls. His balls that were sucked up tight against his rock-hard cock, her beautiful hands wrapped around the shaft, making coherent thought impossible. “Have a condom.” His voice—like the rest of him—was strained.
She paused. “Damn.”
“Do you?” he asked, hoping against hope.
“Nope.” She shook her head and sighed, reluctantly releasing him, removing her hands from his briefs. “I gave my last batch to my sister. Haven’t replaced them. No need.” He could see the glisten of a smear of precome on the soft curve of flesh between her thumb and forefinger. Made himself drag his gaze away and look up into the night sky. “And what’s your excuse?” he heard her say, her voice light, teasing. “Aren’t you supposed to be a famous lothario? I would have expected you to be more prepared.” He could feel her buttoning up his fly. No small task given how engorged he was.
“I, too, wasn’t planning on any seduction. Was expecting to come to a deserted house for some quality alone time—what the hell are you doing?” She’d buttoned his fly and had just given his stiff cock a little pat. “It is not a fluffy white kitten you have tucked in for a nap,” he said sternly.
She laughed. “You men and your penises,” she said. “You take them so damn seriously.”
“Well, yeah. You would, too—”
That just made her laugh more. “Yes, okay, you have a mighty staff. But put the ego aside for a minute. Let’s look at it logically. The penis—”
“The penis—” He was playing it up now, because her belly laugh was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. “Great—yes, very sexy. Please, ma’am, I’d very much like to place my penis inside your genitalia.” She was laughing big-time now. “Good thing
we don’t have a box of condoms, extra-large, naturally, or you’d be in big trouble. I’d have you every which way to Sunday.”
“With your”—she was having to wipe her eyes—“massively big penis?”
“Yup.” He shoved his thumbs in his belt loops, settled back on his heels. “That’s right, ma’am,” he said, leaning on the Texas drawl he had worked so hard as an actor to erase. “We Texans pride ourselves on leaving our women with a smile.”
“Typical man,” she said, grinning at him. “You’re already planning the exit route. Actually, we don’t have to wait until your massive penis is clad. There are plenty of ways for us to—”
* * *
• • •
“SO DAMNED TEMPTING, but I’m going to try to wait, so there will be no limits,” Rhys said as he ambled across the deck, his body a symphony of confidence and controlled strength. She enjoyed watching him walk. Would actually be willing to pay good money for the privilege.
“I could jerk you off,” she drawled, loving that her offer caused his step to hitch slightly, with a sharp intake of breath. “I’m super good at it.”
“I’m sure you are.” His voice came out a husky growl.
“Then why are you over there instead of here?”
“You’ll see.” He was in profile now, and she could see that for all of his casual languor, he was still highly aroused. He inserted his smartphone into the sound-system port, made his selection, and suddenly she was surrounded by music. Aching notes that held within them both sorrow and joy. A piano. The composition so patient and tender, a gentle unfolding that filled the night air with glorious music.
And just like that, the mood changed. Swooping from sensuous laughter to heart-searing longing.
Rhys returned to her, his blue eyes turned almost black and filled with some indefinable emotion. Eve’s breath caught in her chest at the beauty of the night, of him.
Ah . . . she thought, her eyes suddenly hot with tears. Romance. How long has it been since someone took the time to romance me? Has anyone ever?
It felt almost as if the music were emanating from him, spilling out of his pores, his soul. As if he were the music.
He extended his hands, palms-up. No words now. She placed her hands in his, and almost as if she were sleepwalking, she let him pull her to her feet and into his arms.
They danced, body against body, languid and slow, contained heat wrapping them together. One arm around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, her other hand surrounded by his, nestled between their chests, in a way that made her feel protected. Cherished.
With the heat of his palm at the small of her back, her body thrummed, longing for him to explore her, to claim her more thoroughly.
They danced. Breathed each other in, at times barely moving, their bodies drifting through the slanted warm light that spilled from the kitchen window, then back into the quiet, cool embrace of the night’s darkness again.
Twenty-seven
“HA!” HE SHOUTED, scooping up his vodka on the rocks as he pushed back from his desk, the glowing computer screen lighting the darkened bunker like a beacon of hope. The wheels on his chair whirred as they spun along the concrete floor.
“It’s her brother-in-law’s house,” he sang, taking a deep slug of his drink and embracing the icy cold as the liquor burned its way down his throat. “Of course. I should have guessed. And they are away on holiday. She’s house-sitting!” He tipped his head back, drained the glass of liquid, then crushed the remaining ice between his molars.
“The guy shadowing her is probably a relative, a brother or a cousin. Or maybe one of Luke’s bodyguard security friends that he’s stuck her with until Luke returns home with his wife. No sweat. Adds another challenge to this fascinating board game.”
It felt good to know where she was, to have sorted out what was going on. He spun his chair in a happy twirl, then got up, went to the makeshift bar, and made himself another drink.
My fourth? He used the silver tongs to drop a second ice cube in his tumbler. Or maybe it’s my fifth alcoholic beverage of the evening? He shrugged. The sort of nonchalant shrug a man about the town would do. Who’s counting?
He laughed out loud.
No one. That was the beauty of this place. There was no old nag with sagging tits shuffling around, peering over his shoulder, wanting “conversation,” or counting his drinks.
He was his own man here. King of his castle. Could do whatever the hell he liked.
Twenty-eight
USUALLY, FOR EVE, navigating the early-morning hours took a lot of self-negotiating before she could drag herself to consciousness.
Not today. When the alarm went off, she found herself instantly awake and filled with tingling awareness of her body and her surroundings. Also present was a slight sense of vertigo, as if she were blindfolded and perched on the edge of a precipice.
She showered, got dressed, then went into the living room and roused a sleepy Samson from his bed, took him out to do his business. The dog didn’t even glance at the food and water she put down. Just staggered to his bed, circled twice, then flopped down with a noisy groan. No worries, she thought as she headed into the kitchen to make the coffee. He’ll nosh on his food later, when we’re gone.
She felt shy, meeting Rhys at the door. They’d only danced. Danced and talked until the wee hours of the morning. And yet here she was, a couple of hours later, feeling more vulnerable and exposed than if she’d spent the whole night fucking his brains out.
Driving into town, the sky still dark, headlights on, the whole world in bed but them. “How much sleep did we actually clock?” Rhys asked. His hands solid and firm on the steering wheel, shirtsleeves rolled back exposing tanned skin, a light dusting of sun-kissed hair. She wanted to lean forward and lightly skim her cheek over it, feel the feather softness caressing her skin.
“Two and a half hours,” she said.
They both laughed, soft and warm, like a secret.
He took a long drink of his morning coffee, then ran the back of his knuckle across his lush lower lip. Suddenly it felt as if she were his knuckle, reveling in the texture and taste of his lip.
Last night, while they were dancing, she’d reached up and traced his lips with her finger, then pulled his head down and followed her finger’s journey with the tip of her tongue, slipping inside the welcoming warmth of his mouth.
A single moment, a few seconds where time and space slowed until her entire world narrowed down to the feel and slide, the suck and pull of their tongues’ explorations.
Throughout the day, as they worked, shoulder to shoulder, keeping the Intrepid Café running relatively smoothly, she found herself bombarded with memories of the night before.
There was a lull in the front of the house, so she lingered in the doorway and watched him cook. Granted, his presentation skills weren’t up to Maggie’s standards, but the food wasn’t burnt or undercooked, and it tasted pretty darn good.
She loved how he knew his way around the Intrepid kitchen as if he had been working there for months. Such a turn-on, how fast he’d picked everything up.
She ambled over and plucked the BLT croissant and an asparagus and leek frittata from under the heat lamp, where he had deposited them. Imagine how well he could learn his way around your body if you gave him the chance. And just like that, heat shimmered through her like a promise.
He looked up from the beets he was prepping for the next day’s borscht—a recipe of his mom’s he wanted to make—as if she’d tapped him on the shoulder or called his name. His gaze captured hers, a slow-growing smile curving the outer edges of his lips, like he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
Waves of longing coursed through her as she added the green side salad to the frittata plate and arranged sliced fresh fruit beside the croissant. Then out the swinging doors she went, back to the hustle and bustle
of the café, cheeks flaming, clothes chafing her overly sensitized body. This is what happens when one has gone too long without sex, she told herself, but it was a lie. She had never felt like this.
Never.
She tried to stay in the front of the house, dealing with customers, filling orders. It was the sensible thing to do. She couldn’t walk around in a sensual stupor, emitting fuck-me pheromones like a dog in heat. But knowing that he was there, just beyond the swinging doors, called to her like a lodestone.
Within twenty minutes she was back there again, watching him gently sprinkle powdered sugar on the jam-dot cookies. The tenderness and care with which he was doing it made her need to turn away to hide her smile. The man was powerful enough to take down Larry and pin him to the floor—which was no small feat; Larry was six foot four and weighed two hundred and something pounds—and yet Rhys appeared equally comfortable wearing Maggie’s pink heart-patterned apron, humming to himself while knuckle deep in powdered sugar.
She walked to the freezer, taking the roundabout route that required her body to squeeze past his.
“Hey, now,” he drawled under his breath as he leaned back a little to prolong the brief contact. “No harassing the help.”
“You wish,” she said, an answering smile on her lips as she tugged the freezer door open, removed the vanilla ice cream, and brought it to the counter beside him. She reached up, brushing against him again under the guise of getting two dessert plates, even though there were plenty still in the lower cupboard. She felt his warm breath caress the slope of her neck as she reached past him for the ice cream scooper. There was so much electricity zinging between their bodies, Eve was surprised her hair wasn’t swirling around her head like in a sci-fi movie.
He placed a hand on her hip as she plated the pie, leaned in with his pelvis. She could feel through their clothes that he was fully erect. Hot and hard. She laughed low in her throat and danced away from his grasp, out through the swinging doors.
