by Mia Downing
“Impulsive doesn’t sound good.” Impulsive got you killed.
“Impulsive got you a weekend leave with a man bent on giving you proper orgasms. I would think you’d be on my side.”
The heat of a blush crept to her cheeks, and Tia ducked her head to hide behind the veil of her hair. The last time she’d blushed was probably at fifteen. “I guess when you put it that way…”
“What’s your favorite color?”
She snapped her gaze to his. Where the hell did that come from? “I don’t know. Why?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“Yellow. You?”
“Blue.” He cocked his head. “I expected pink from you.”
She didn’t like anything pink or soft or innocent or girly, solely because that was as far from the woman she’d become as she could get. “I’m not a normal woman, Jake.”
“This weekend, you are.” He listened for a moment as a song came on the radio—a dance thing they loved to play in the dance room at the club. “Dance with me.”
Tia looked up at him, shocked. She hadn’t been asked to dance in a non-work environment in…years. She didn’t dance at the club. “Now? In the kitchen? I’m covered in flour.”
“Why not?” He grabbed her waist and swung her around, and she laughed, unable to resist. But as he settled into a sway, his hips inches from hers, she noticed the tempo he set was way slower than the song, though her heart had no trouble racing to keep up.
“You’re not moving fast enough,” she chided.
“I guess I need more practice. You don’t put me through my paces in that aspect. And I usually don’t enjoy dancing. Not anymore.”
“We don’t go to the club to dance,” she reminded him but slid her hands along his shoulders to meet at his nape, his longish hair brushing her fingertips. So sinfully good under her hands, his muscles firm. She stared up at him. “If you don’t like to dance, then why are we?”
“So I can touch you without breaking any rules,” he whispered, his eyes darkening. The smile he gave her was sinfully sensual. “The house would be pissed.”
Her stomach did a huge flip, one that shook desire out of place so lust could step up. She let her head rest against his strong chest as she inhaled. He smelled of leather, horses, and hay mingled with just a touch of salty male, and it was headier than any cologne he could have put on.
He kept a chaste distance between their hips, and she longed to mold herself against his hard length. She wanted him to kiss her, run his hands through her hair, and grind his hips against hers. She trembled slightly at the direction lust was taking her. How odd to be wary of lust when it usually dictated what they did together.
The song ended, and he stopped swaying, his hands still on her waist. He kissed her neck then pulled away, the touch of his lips lingering for what seemed like forever as he stared at her. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he opened his mouth to say something.
The timer went off.
“Biscuits,” she whispered.
“Biscuits.” His voice was hoarse, gravely. Then he nodded, as if he’d made a decision. “I’ll set the table.”
Jake grabbed plates as Tia went to the oven. He felt like a randy teenager. It’d been about that long since he danced with a girl. Not since…Maria.
He shook his head, not wanting to go there. And he doubted he’d ever danced in a kitchen. His mother would have swatted him for that. But it had seemed right, and seeing Tia in his kitchen, covered in flour and looking so damned domestic had made him want to sweep her up and kiss her until she begged him to go upstairs.
He didn’t want to do that until later, though. Much later. For now, anticipation would have to rule, and it had him by the collar, restraining his libido with a firm hand. Though they had always been attracted to each other, play at the club seemed to bypass this simple step of learning each other past what sort of kink they liked. He knew that aspect of what she liked all too well, just like he knew all too well how to set a table.
He wanted to know how to set her table, though, in a proverbial sense. Did she like flowers or candles, did she enjoy dancing with him, and did she like butter on her biscuits? He wanted to know the little details that made her Tia. Those that made her special.
He inhaled as she took the biscuits out of the oven, golden brown and flaky, and he realized with a start that the last woman who cooked for him was Kate, and that was only because she’d actually cooked for Chase and he was allowed to join in. Before that, who knew? But this meal was all his to enjoy, as was she. When he asked her to come home with him, he didn’t realize how lucky he had been when she said yes.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse again. He hoped she didn’t ask what he was thanking her for, because hell if he knew. Maybe because he wasn’t alone. Maybe because she cooked. Who knew. He was just…grateful.
She brushed a lock of hair from her face and a dusting of flour coated the strand. She gave him a half-smile, since she was concentrating on not dropping bread products on the floor or burning herself on a hot tray. “You haven’t eaten it yet. It could taste like airplane food.”
He didn’t care if it tasted like cardboard at this point. “Would you make all this for yourself?”
She gave him a baffled look as she set the biscuits on the table next to the butter. “No, silly. I made it for you.”
He sat at his place and smiled. “Then thank you.”
****
After dinner, Jake grabbed a book and a blanket and told Tia to get her knitting. She did so, thinking of the meal they’d just shared, proud of her efforts. It had been eons since she had cooked for herself, let alone a man. Jake had been incredibly grateful, ate a huge plate with seconds, and proclaimed it the best thing he’d had in the last year, since he’d been home to Texas.
Heady praise, it was, almost as heady as the quick kiss he’d slanted across the side of her mouth, one too friendly to be from a lover, but with a slight more than friends feel. She had wanted more and found herself impatient that he hadn’t kissed her properly yet.
But after he had deftly loaded the dishwasher, he said was ready to move on to the next event in his relaxathon, as he so called it. He hurried her out the screen door to the back yard, his hand pressing against the small of her back.
“Where we going?” she asked.
“To relax. That’s what you do in a relaxathon. You relax hardcore.” They walked outside to the back lawn, a distance from the house. He spread the blanket under a grand old tree and gestured for her to sit. She dropped down and leaned against the tree. He seemed to size up her location before he sat and leaned his head against her thigh, using it as a pillow. “That okay for you?”
“I guess.” His dark blond hair flowed over her thigh like a golden river, the contact too sweet to pass up. “You’re going to get yarn in your face at some point, though.”
“I’ll suffer for the sake of progress.” He glanced up at her handiwork. She had the brim done and was beginning the body of the hat, the medium weight wool a blend of cashmere and merino, soft and expensive. Perfect for him.
She started in, the stitches flying easily from one needle to the other. “What are you reading?”
He showed her the cover. “A thriller thing.”
“Any good?”
“Dunno. I’m on page ten.”
“Room for development, then.” She smiled down at him, so handsome in the golden light offered by the impending sunset. And suddenly, she wanted to kiss him, badly. Just for the sake of kissing him, because she had to taste his lips. He must have seen something in her eyes because he didn’t start reading.
She leaned forward—the angle was awkward and he was upside down—and let her lips brush his. He tasted buttery, and her stomach joined hands with her heart and they did a little flip together at the contact. It was a movement that caused a sharp twinge in the region of her heart, and she wondered at it. Why would kissing him make her feel that way?
“Wh
at’s that for?” he asked, his eyes full of questions and a note of something…desire maybe.
“For allowing me to make you a hat.”
Jake cocked a brow at her. “What about the purse thing? You should kiss me for that.”
She smiled, liking the eager tone in his voice. But she didn’t want to seem too easy to please him. “It’s hard to kiss you like this.”
“Then come down here where I am. You can kiss me all you want.”
Her knitting set aside, Tia slid out from under his head and curled up beside him. Suddenly, she felt shy about kissing him—another first. But she laid her head on his chest. His heart seemed to skip a little faster under her ear, and hers joined his, quickening the pace. She expected him to claim her mouth then, but he didn’t. Instead, his fingers drew a pattern on her forearm, one that seemed to match the racing of her heart.
“Does this feel weird to you?” she whispered, her fingers creeping up to caress his jaw, still smooth despite the lateness of the hour. “I’ve kissed you so many times, but this feels…weird.”
“Maybe it’s normal.” Jake drew her up his chest, and his lips met hers. But this time he was in control, and he wasn’t the least bit in a hurry. He brushed her lips softly, once, twice, then a little harder, a little longer, his tongue never once making contact. Something inside her flared to life, something that had been dormant for a long time. He smoothed her hair with a hand then cupped the back of her head but still didn’t deepen the kiss at all.
She opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his lips, wanting more. Hotter, deeper. He responded, tasting her slowly, not allowing more than a gentle caress with his tongue before withdrawing. He nipped at her bottom lip, sucking it gently between his, then he returned to his languid perusal of her mouth with his tongue, finally allowing hers to tangle with his.
Jake rolled her to her back, his chest pressing against hers as he looked down at her for a moment. Long fingers tangled in her hair, the expression on his face unreadable. In D.C., he would have commanded her to do something at this point—to strip, pick a role, get the restraints—something. But he just returned his mouth to hers, as if he knew that was off limits, out of bounds, and instead, he kissed her as if he had all the time in the world.
Tia didn’t want all the time in the world. She wanted now. Arching upward, she rubbed her breasts against the manly steel beneath his T-shirt. Her hands laced through his hair, and she pulled him down, kissing him harder.
But he lifted his head. “Easy, darlin,” he breathed. “We have all weekend.”
“I want you.”
“We have all weekend,” he said firmly and kissed her again very gently, softening his lips, as if punishing her for being greedy.
So she angled her hips more under his until the length of his erection under his jeans came in contact with her jean-clad crotch and her soaked panties. She moaned into his mouth—shocking to her, because she never moaned. His hardness was electrifying, sending zings straight from her pussy to her neglected breasts.
He angled off her, withdrawing the contact, and cupped her cheek as he landed two butterfly kisses to her lips.
“What the hell?” she grumped against his mouth. She wanted him, damn it. Didn’t he want her, too?
“House rules.”
“This is vanilla.” He was on top of her. There was nothing kinky about that. How much more vanilla could it get?
“You can’t have sex until later.”
“What the hell?” she repeated, disgusted. His punishment goaded her lust, pissing it off. “How much later?”
“Until I say so. House rules.” He kissed her again, longer, a bit harder, and then he rolled and grabbed his book. He scooted up the blanket to lean against the tree. “We’re losing daylight. Start knitting.”
“But I want you.”
“You’ll still want me in a bit,” he said as he turned the page. “Make my hat. Make enough progress, and you can kiss me again.”
“Smug bastard,” she whispered but picked up her knitting despite the sweet ache in her core. She scooted up the blanket as well and leaned against the tree next to him, off to the side a little so she didn’t touch him.
He inched over, she inched away. He grinned. She glared. Her fingers flew on the stitches, winding the yarn, the needles warm in her hands. She wanted to strangle him, but instead, found the contact with the wooden needles to be comforting. She could squeeze them as hard as she wanted and pretend they were his neck.
She caught him as he glanced at her, smiling smugly.
Smug bastard. She huffed and knit faster. But he was right, damn him. She’d still want him in a bit. Right now, she wanted him more than anything, and the thought made her ache in all the right places. Aches he’d damn well better take care of later, or he was going to find out firsthand how pointy those knitting needles were.
****
One sunset and a shared ice-cream sundae later, Jake gathered bags from the living room, unsure of what to do next. He wanted Tia, naked, in his bed more than he’d wanted anything in a long time. The afternoon had been magical; riding had been a blast, his dinner beyond his wildest expectations. He’d never read under his tree with a companion before, and it was definitely something he could get used to. Coming home thus far was perfection.
Kissing her under the tree had almost been the breaking point. When she had arched against him and deepened the kiss, it had taken every inch of strength and willpower not to pound into her right there. He couldn’t think of a more romantic place to make love to her, though his level of need passed lovemaking hours ago. He was now at wanting to take, plunder, and pound, and he’d bet a dollar she was there, too.
But the idea of taking her to his bed with anything but the intent of making love to her made him break out into a cold sweat. This was home to him. He had some of the same rules at his apartment in D.C., too. He’d never take a woman there, either. It was part of his upbringing and having four brothers to pound the shit out of him had served to drive the rules of home into his skull fairly quickly.
Good men did not take women home to their bed. They took home wives. Good men didn’t fuck women. They made love to wives. Pure and simple. And although he didn’t claim to be a good man, home demanded he raise his standards.
The beautiful, sexy woman who waited in his bedroom, upstairs, was not his wife. If he took his raging libido out of the equation, he did want to make love to her instead of fuck her senseless, and he should get brownie points for that. But it didn’t get around the problem that, unfortunately, even vanilla sex wasn’t enough to appease the rule follower deep inside him.
God damn, it wasn’t like he could run out and get married. Who did that? Not sane men, not so they could have a night of blistering hot lovemaking with a beautiful woman. Tia was more than beautiful, and he had to admit, he’d been drawn to her since day one. She was sexy, smart, and a damned good cook. And what little he knew about her was like a sip of water to a thirsty man. He wanted more than that intoxicating sip, wanted to drink down everything about her in great, satisfying gulps. That didn’t mean he wanted to marry her, though.
Did it?
He closed his eyes and fought for clarity. An option. A way out. His eyes flew open as he found a way around the rules. They’d role-play married. For the evening. It was corny, it was stupid, and a part of him was disgusted he’d stoop so low.
But the part of him that wanted to follow the rules so badly needed this, for some sick, asinine reason. He was tired of being the best man. He wanted to be first. The groom. All afternoon, he’d been first for a change. Tia fed him, thought of his needs, kissed and wanted him. And he loved every second of it.
So why not? Jake gathered the bags and went upstairs. Tia would either shoot him down or play along. If he was any good at seduction, he’d made her horny enough to play the role of wife to his heart’s desire.
He hoped like hell he had done his job.
****
Tia sat o
n his queen-sized bed upstairs, hands pressed nervously between her thighs, unsure what to expect. Jake had said she had to wait for sex. How long? Would he want her tonight or tomorrow or…maybe never? She ached so badly that if he didn’t take care of her soon, she’d have to break out the vibrator and take care of herself, which would probably break a house rule, but fuck the house. Well, damn, it usually took a hell of a lot more to get her to this point. Her vibrator didn’t get much of a workout.
She sighed and looked around. His bedroom was beautiful, and not at all what she expected a man to have. The bed was a white four-poster with an heirloom quilt that looked like something straight from a grandmother’s hope chest. The pillows had matching shams, and a knit blanket stretched across the foot of the bed. The curtains were edged with white eyelet lace, the windows now dark. A colorful braided rug peeked out from under the bed, and a white rocking chair sat in the corner.
Jake came in the room finally, carrying their bags, wearing a conflicted look that made her wary. “I don’t know if you feel comfortable sleeping here with me or not.”
She looked longingly at the bed. “Do I get sex if I sleep here, with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then here is fine.”
He hesitated, and his stance became one of deep conflict. “There are rules.”
“Of course there are.” She rolled her eyes. Freaking pansy man. “You live alone, you’re a man. You don’t need to make rules. You can do what you want. Run wild, live in your underwear, drink milk straight out the carton. Leave the toilet seat up. Why you need these rules is a mystery.”
He didn’t look amused or very pansy-like as he set her bag down and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m serious about this. There are rules.”
“Fine.” She gestured to him with her open hand. “Just tell me.”
“You won’t like it.” He cocked his head in warning, a look she was starting to dread.
“I’m sure I won’t.” She sighed. Why was this man so irresistibly difficult?
“If we have sex tonight, we have to role-play.”
