by Sabrina York
I tried not to be jealous.
He gave me a funny look. “No. They live in the States. Sprinkled all over like so much paprika.” He snapped his fingers and headed back to the pantry. “Paprika.” He emerged with a tiny envelope. He extracted a pinch and sprinkled it on the risotto and gave it a stir.
I leaned over the island and peered at the skillet. “My paprika doesn’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Red.”
He rolled his eyes as he dropped the scallops into the pan. “Don’t tell me. You have it in a bottle, which you’ve had in your pantry since the day you moved in?”
Kinda. But I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to.
He blew out a breath. “Darling, you have a lot to learn about good cooking.”
“I know everything I need to know.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, creamy peanut butter is easier to lick from the spoon.”
He stopped what he was doing to send me a woeful glance. Then he did an amazing flippy thing with the pan. The perfectly browned scallops all did somersaults in the air and landed with a sizzle on their virgin sides.
I gaped. “If I tried that, they’d be all over the floor.”
“Which is precisely why I am cooking. One more minute. Pour me a glass of wine, will you? And I’ll plate up.”
“Plate up.” I chuckled. “Fancy schmancy. Someone has been watching cooking shows.”
He shot me a wicked grin. “And someone hasn’t.”
Well, I could hardly argue. Redneck reality was about my speed.
So I didn’t argue. But I did pour him some wine and grab some silverware and attempt to do something that looked fairly passable by way of setting the table.
He brought the plates, one in each hand, and gazed down at my work. His lips quirked. “Forks go on the other side.”
“Forks go where I can reach them.” To demonstrate, I took a fork and a spoon, one in each fist, and propped them, ends up, on the table. “Feed me,” I growled, like an alien plant.
Laughing, he set my plate before me and took the seat at my side. I gazed down at heaven. Four exquisitely browned scallops marched across the center of the plate, decorated with a drizzle of purple…something. The asparagus perched on one side and the risotto on the other. It was practically a work of art. The smells were incredible and wafted to my nostrils, taunting me like lovers long lost.
I moaned.
“Go on,” he urged. “Dig in.”
I hated to do it. I hated to wreck the exquisite presentation, but I was hungry. I began with a scallop, carefully slicing off a delicate bite. It practically melted in my mouth. The risotto was, well, orgasmic and the asparagus was so perfectly cooked I could cut it without a knife.
“Ohmygod, Jimmy,” I said, through a mouthful of food. “This is unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable that a man can cook like this?” He took a sip of his wine to hide his smile.
I smacked him on the shoulder. “No. Not like that. It’s… Absolutely perfect. That kind of unbelievable.”
He made a mocking bow. “I’m glad you like it.”
Like it? I loved it. Every bite. Without another word, I cleaned my plate. I wanted to lick it, but thought better about the impulse. And all the while I couldn’t help thinking, with talents like this, what on earth was he doing here, cleaning pools for Marlee?
But I couldn’t ask.
It would be rude.
Also, I’d thrown Marlee down the cliff.
He glanced at my empty plate. And then at me. He quirked a brow.
“What?” I took a healthy swig of wine.
“So no more complaining about truffle turds?”
The wine came out my nose. I grabbed a napkin and wiped it up. He howled with laughter.
“No more complaining about anything you want to cook with.”
“Really?” He shifted closer. An evil look flitted across his face. “Because I have this recipe for goat penis…”
I blanched and held up a hand. “No, Jimmy. I think we have to draw the line somewhere.”
Chapter Four
He chuckled, but his smile faded. Tiny lines creased at his eyes. He licked his lips, a sign I was coming to recognize in him. It was his way of preparing to say something difficult.
But he didn’t say whatever was on his mind. He took another drink. Two. And then cleared his throat. “So, tell me, what do you do when you’re not floating in a pool and eating truffle turds on a Caribbean island?”
I blinked. With the exception of our aborted conversations about Marlee and that bit about his mother, we hadn’t touched on anything real. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there. Wasn’t sure I wanted to even remember where I’d come from, where I’d lived less than a day ago. The whirlwind of my life, the constant pressure, the ever-hovering sword of doom…it all seemed so far away. And I liked it that way.
On the other hand, his question was genuine. The interest in his eyes, sincere.
Maybe I did want to go there, for a bit, if only to share it with him.
This would probably be the only time I could.
“I’m a publicist for a firm that handles celebrities. That’s where I met…” I nodded, reluctant to say her name once more. “Her.”
“Ah.” He toyed with his wine glass. “Celebrities. That must be exciting.”
“As exciting as a sled ride down a rocky mountain.” I reflected on that. “During a landslide. In a thunderstorm. Carrying a lightning rod.”
His eyes widened. “Does sound like fun.”
“Celebrities are awesome.” This, I invested with my best, like, Valley girl voice?
“So…” He fiddled with the corner of his napkin, which seemed to require every ort of his attention.
“So?”
“So, why do you do it?” It was evident, woven through his tone, his befuddlement. As though spending every day at a job one didn’t like very much and working with people one didn’t like very much was some kind of…option in life.
As though there was some universe, some alternate dimension, where I could just throw up my hands and walk away and the entire world wouldn’t crash down on its wobbly foundations.
As though there was a choice in the matter.
Then again, he was a pool boy. He’d made his choices.
And he had Marlee to keep him.
I had no one to keep me. No one to pay the bills if the paychecks suddenly stopped. I was all on my own here in this big wide world. Well, if you didn’t count Mitten, my Devil Cat from Hell.
And Mitten probably wouldn’t pay my bills.
If the tuna express stopped rolling in, she'd be outta there like a shot.
Ah well. It hardly mattered. I’d been alone most of my life and I would be for the rest of it. The only men I ever met—hunky pool boys notwithstanding—were self-indulgent rockers and their neurotic managers.
I’d quit dreaming of fairy-tale princes long ago.
I called that growing up.
I glanced at Jimmy, aware that his steady gaze was still on me, still burning. “Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I do love my work. It’s exciting and fun…sometimes. Something different every day. And the celebrities are not all horrible, whiny trolls determined to make my blood pressure pop. Some are pretty cool. Some are even, well, friends. You know.” I shrugged and waved my hand in a vague direction—perhaps toward the cliff. “Like her.”
“She Who Shall Not Be Named.” His lashes flickered.
“Exactly.” I upended my goblet—probably a crime in some circles because it really was a delightful bouquet and shit. But frankly, thinking about my work and Marlee—and Marlee and Jimmy—had brought back that knot in my gut, the one that smoldered and occasionally spat lava. In my experience, alcohol could release the knot. I glanced at the bottle, assessing how much was left.
Jimmy took the hint and refilled my glass, giving me the last of his Merlot.
Gotta love chivalry in
a man.
He watched as I downed that too. “I have another bottle,” he said, his lips tweaking up at the corners.
I sighed. “That was lovely, but I think I’ve had enough.” For now, anyway. I didn’t want him to think I was a lush. I wasn’t sure why I cared. This was only a vacation fling after all, and we both knew it. All too soon I would be heading back to the circus, brandishing my trademark chair and whip.
I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Determinedly, I thrust the thought away. Now was for now. Now was for us.
“Do you want to take another hot tub?” I asked, by way of steering the conversation out of murky waters.
He picked up my empty plate and set it on his, which was equally bare. “Do you?”
“Not really.”
“Me either.” He sighed and stood, collecting the detritus of our meal. Because I figured I should probably help, at least a bit, I collected the silverware and the goblets and followed him to the sink. “After I clean up dinner, maybe we can play cards?” He quirked a brow, a look of patent interest on his face.
Oh, he looked so adorable and so hopeful I couldn’t bear to say no. It took everything in me to hold back a grimace. Cards? Boring. “What do you like to play?”
“Poker.”
Another grimace repressed. Or, maybe not so repressed.
He chuckled. “Poker is fun.”
This time I didn’t bother to hold back. I made a lemon-sucking face. “Blech.”
He set the plates in the sink and started the water running. “How about…strip poker?” His steamy gaze was infused with mischief.
I glanced meaningfully at his shorts and my robe. “Wouldn’t be a long game,” I pointed out.
“True. Okay…” He added soap and frothed up the bubbles. I never thought washing dishes could be so sexy—probably why I rarely did it. I tended to lean toward frozen dinners served in their convenient plastic containers, takeout and paper plates. For me, doing the dishes consisted of throwing crap away. “How about challenge poker then?”
Ooh. That captured my interest. “What is challenge poker, exactly?”
“Simple.” He cleaned one plate and then the other, rinsing them and stacking them on a drying rack. Then he started on the goblets and the silverware. I helped him by watching. I was good at that. “The winner of each hand gets to issue a challenge to the loser.”
A shudder walked through me as I thought about the possibilities. “What-what kind of challenge?”
He shrugged. “Anything you want. A massage. A naughty kiss. A foot rub…” He glanced tellingly at my feet. I wiggled my bare toes and was thrilled at the way his expression froze into something needy and hard. He snapped out of it, but not soon enough. Not before I realized something very real about our Jimmy.
He had something of a foot fetish.
“Hmm.” I handed him a pan and he dunked it in the water. “Sounds…intriguing. Okay. Let’s play a few hands and see how it goes.”
He focused his attention on the pan, scrubbing it like a mad man, but I didn’t miss his grin. Or his expression, filled as it was, with promise.
He won the first hand, which annoyed me. Something about playing cards ignited the competitive devil inside me, but when the challenge he issued was that I remove the robe and play in the buff, I found I was able to gracefully accept defeat. Besides, judging from his expression, the way his attention kept drifting from his cards to my breasts, playing in the buff was an advantage for me.
I made it a point to sigh heavily and suck in deep breaths and anything else I could do to jostle my bosom.
Not that I would resort to cheating to win a hand of poker, but I would.
Besides, it was hardly cheating, was it? I was just workin’ the hand I’d been dealt.
No surprise, then, that I won the next hand.
He tossed his cards down, showing a dismal display, and I had to wonder if he’d deliberately thrown the game. But I didn’t wonder long. I didn’t much care.
“I won,” I said, splaying my neatly arranged cards.
“I see that.” He leaned forward, his arms braced on the table. “What do you want?”
I cracked my neck. Rubbed my nape. “You mentioned a massage?”
His nostrils flared. “I believe I did.”
“Well, that sounds awesome.”
“Okay. Massage it is. With or without?”
I scrunched up my nose. “With or without what?”
“Oil?”
Oh. Oh my.
“Are we talking vegetable oil here?” Because, eww.
His lips eased into a lazy, lusty smile. “Oh, ye of little faith. I have massage oils.” Of course he did. This was Marlee’s place. She would insist on it. I thrust the thought away. Locked it up with all the others clawing to escape the crowded cage in the back of my mind.
“What, um, what kind of massage oils?”
“Stinky ones.”
“Stinky ones?”
He winked. “You know. Jasmine. Rose. Peppermint.”
“Which one do you like?” I didn’t want to smell like something he considered stinky.
The question seemed to throw him. He stared at me, his mouth agape. Then he swallowed and murmured, “The vanilla. I like the vanilla.”
His tone sent a shiver rippling over my skin. I was suddenly reminded that I was bare-assed naked in the breakfast nook with a near naked stud poised on the brink of meeting my every need, my every desire. “Vanilla it is.”
Without a word, he stood and came around the table, holding out his hand. His palm was warm as it skimmed mine. The shiver became a tremble. As I rose, my attention snagged on something in his shorts. Something hard and long and prominent.
Jesus God. He was aroused.
Ready.
I was too, but I wasn’t missing out on this massage. No way. No how.
He led me back to the bedroom, the one done in black, where we’d made love before. As we made our way down the hall, he trickled his fingers up and down my spine. I sucked in a breath and reveled in his touch.
I couldn’t wait for more.
He went into the bathroom and emerged with a large bath towel, which he laid out on the duvet, and a bottle of oil. He nodded toward the bed. “Go on. On your tummy.”
It occurred to me that I should protest his commanding tone. I was the one who had won the hand after all. But then it occurred to me that I didn’t mind the commanding tone. In fact, I quite liked it.
So, watching him over my shoulder, I crawled onto the bed and poked my ass in his direction and, for good measure, waggled it. I didn’t expect the fervor that blazed in his eyes. The way his features went taut, then slack. The way his nostrils flared, like a stallion in heat. “Lie—” He cleared his throat. “Lie flat.”
I complied, burying my head in my arms.
The bed dipped as he sat down beside me. A moment later, the scent of vanilla filled the air and I heard him rubbing his hands together. “Warming it,” he said.
“Mmm.” I was atingle with anticipation.
Gently, he brushed my hair off my neck. I shivered at the whisper of his touch. Goose bumps rose on my arms and legs. The sudden stirring of the air kissed my sensitive skin.
What was he waiting for—?
And ah! His hands, hard and warm and slick with the scented oil, came down on my shoulders. Broad palms eased over the tense muscles. “Relax,” he murmured. And he began to work.
I had expected some playful rub-a-dub-dub, something superficial and seductive.
This was not that.
This was a real massage. Deep into my tissue, lazy and languid. He seemed to savor every stroke. I know I did.
He explored each tendon, every muscle, digging into recalcitrant knots and working them until they released. It was like a long, decadent orgasm. Slow and easy.
Relentlessly, he worked his way over my shoulders, my back, my flanks. He massaged my lower back and the globes of my ass and then lower to my thighs
and calves. He avoided my feet completely which, for some reason, I found disappointing.
When he shifted my legs apart, I merely moaned. I was boneless, without anchor, drifting in a fog.
His finger, grazing my clit, should not have surprised me. Indeed, I registered the sensation from afar. There was nothing sexual in it. Nothing manic or frantic or lusty. It was a gentle caress, a teasing tangle. Arousal curled in me, but it was not a needy thing.
Warmth grew gradually, like a twining vine.
He shifted a bit and his fingers drifted over my entrance. I sighed and opened my legs wider and he slipped in. Again, unhurried, searching, gentle beyond any gentleness I had ever known. Relentlessly, he roused my passion. Seeking and finding that sensitive spot deep within. He explored it idly, one hand buried in me, while the other danced up and down my back, over my shoulders and over my ass.
And then it changed. His movements became more deliberate, his teasing touch more wicked. I wiggled and sighed as he hit a particularly pleasurable spot. His palm slid to the small of my back and pressed, just a tiny bit, but I knew he was holding me still. For what, I did not know.
He eased his fingers out and drew them up along the tender line of my most sensitive flesh until he reached the tighter hole that had never been breached.
I was too lethargic, too curious, to protest.
He waited, the tip of his finger, bathed in my cream and the sensuous oil, hovering there, kissing me there, giving me the opportunity to object. When I did not, he eased in. Not far. Not hard. He simply slipped in.
Sensation—unfamiliar, lurid and insanely hot—whipped through me.
I whimpered, an involuntary response.
He pressed deeper and brought his other hand around and under me and began circling my clit. My poor clit, all swollen and aching. His touch was a relief, a rush.
Unexpectedly, my passion erupted. Like the phoenix rising from the flames, it rose in a great cloud, crying and calling and wafting wings hewn of molten fire. My body seized, clenched, collapsed, incinerated in the intensity of the blaze.
