by Terry Odell
Regrouping was in order. She decided a cup of hot cocoa was not what she wanted to unwind with. No, she needed to work. She settled in front of her laptop and checked her bakeoff notes. She made a mental note to touch base with Elaine, who hadn’t been at today’s meeting. Next, she dove into her menu for her grand opening offerings. Once she’d decided what she’d have for her first few days, she moved onto a shopping list. Now that she had a place to work, she could order her startup perishables.
When her phone rang and it was Scott, she forgot all about everything else she had to do. “Want some dinner? I’ll cook.” Why had she said that? She was on a roll, she’d actually forgotten about the police investigation, and after all the baking and the stress of the day, cooking wasn’t on her top three “things I want to be doing” list. She’d figured she’d have a yogurt and call it a night.
“I ordered delivery—Chinese. Thought you might want to join me,” Scott said. “I can never make up my mind, so I order too much. It’ll be here in half an hour.”
“Sounds good.” His place or hers? Did it matter? Was there some sort of rule? He’d been at her place last time, but it wasn’t like a date. Was it? He’d only been in his apartment a couple of days. He probably wasn’t set up to have people over yet. “You want to eat over here?”
“You sure? I think it’s my turn.”
Those were his words, but his tone said, “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Half an hour, he’d said. She showered, washed and dried her hair, put on some makeup—not too much—no reason for him to think she was primping on his behalf. Lightweight khakis. Navy polo or pale blue blouse? Blouse. But as she buttoned it, she couldn’t shake the vision of Scott’s fingers unbuttoning it. Maybe the polo was a smarter move. It had buttons, but only three, and they didn’t go all the way down.
What are you thinking? It’s Chinese food. Delivery. Not a date.
She decided on the blouse, but with a lace-trimmed cami under it. As an afterthought, she added a spritz of perfume.
She’d finished setting the table when Scott arrived, accompanied by a large paper bag and the heady aroma of garlic, ginger, and soy sauce. He set the containers on the counter. “You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble.”
“What trouble? I put out two plates.”
“And cloth napkins, and placemats. Forks and chopsticks. And water glasses.”
“Well, we have to eat on something, with something, and I like to drink something with my dinner.”
He gave a sheepish grin. “I usually eat right out of the container. Paper plates if I’m feeling elegant. Beer out of the bottle.”
Which was why she’d invited him over. “Well, I like plates. I don’t have any beer, though.”
“Water’s fine.”
Scott had showered and changed as well. Ashley stifled a giggle when she saw his khakis and navy polo. If she’d worn hers, they’d have been wearing the same outfit.
By some unspoken agreement, they left the investigation alone as they ate. Dinner passed in companionable conversation, exchanging the autobiographical information typical of a first date. But it wasn’t a date. She didn’t mention Barry, however, and Scott didn’t say anything about his accident.
He insisted on loading the dishwasher. Now what? Did she say thanks and show him to the door? She didn’t think she could stay awake through another movie. “How about a nightcap? After today, I think a drink is in order.” Where the heck had that come from? Seems that her brain and her mouth totally disconnected when Scott was in the room. Or on the phone. Or in her thoughts.
Chapter 20
After today, a drink was definitely in order. Scott had put off taking another dose of meds. He perused the contents of Ashley’s liquor supply. Fancy flavored liqueurs. Every flavor on the planet, apparently. He moved bottles aside, looking for more options. “Ashley? Don’t you have any real booze?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. Booze. Vodka, bourbon, gin, whiskey.”
“None of which I have. I’m not a big drinker. I had a bottle of rum, but I used it when I was trying out recipes.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Scott said. “I can do without.”
“Wait one second.” Ashley popped into the living room and returned with a bell-shaped bottle. “How about this one? It’s some kind of cognac. It was a gift, and I haven’t opened it.”
Scott took the bottle and read the label. Hennessy XO. “Ashley, I can’t drink this.”
Her brows came together. “Why not? Is there something wrong with it?”
“No. It’s much too expensive. You should save it for something really special. To celebrate your grand opening and the success of your bakeoff.”
“You didn’t plan to drink the whole bottle tonight, did you?”
He laughed. “No, not tonight.” Although there was a time not so long ago when he might have.
“Then why don’t you pour us each a nightcap, and we can celebrate again after the bakeoff.” She went back to the living room and this time returned with two crystal snifters.
He poured, carried both to the coffee table and excused himself to use the bathroom. As he washed his hands, he eyed the bottle of mouthwash on the counter. He tasted the garlic from dinner and wondered if tonight might turn into a repeat of last night.
You’re hoping it will. Why else did you shower and shave before coming over? Otherwise, you’d be in the Jacuzzi.
He rinsed his mouth.
When he got to the living room, Ashley was curled up in a corner of the couch. Her snifter was almost empty. She lifted the glass in a wobbly toast. “This stuff is good. I don’t know why I didn’t open it before.”
Scott crossed the room and eased the glass from her hand and set it on the table. “Hey. Take it easy. You’re supposed to savor it, not swig it. This bottle cost well over a hundred dollars. Maybe closer to two.”
Ashley’s eyes widened. She looked at the glass. Then picked it up, swirled the liquid up to the light. “And worth every penny.” She held out her glass. “Refill?”
He added a little more, then sat beside her, warmed when she scooted closer and rested her head against him. He wrapped his good arm around her shoulder and took a sip of the cognac, letting it sit on his tongue, savoring the flavor. Easy to see why Ashley had made short work of her first glass. But this stuff could hit you like a runaway locomotive, especially if you weren’t a drinker.
Despite his warning, Ashley finished her drink in a matter of minutes, while he was content to nurse his, which surprised him. Since he’d met Ashley, his path toward recovery had accelerated like a boulder plummeting down Mount Hood.
He sat, absorbing her warmth, her scent. Small talk seemed trivial. Shop talk would upset her. He set his glass beside Ashley’s empty one. The click as it connected with the wood seemed to scream his intentions.
She lifted her head, her eyes bright, her pupils dilated. “I’m glad you’re here. I feel … relaxed. Mellow. I don’t think it’s the cognac. It’s not that kind of tipsy. I know I should be worried about the bakery—”
He put his finger over her lips. “No worrying tonight.” He caressed the curve of her cheek. Ran his finger down her neck. He waited for a sign that she was okay with this, that last night hadn’t been a one-time deal.
She tilted her head, answering his question. He shifted, replacing his finger with his mouth. Her breath hitched. That tiny sound sent his blood south. He nibbled at her earlobe. She squirmed. Made little whimpering sounds. He worked his way down her neck, along the contours of her collarbone. She arched her back.
One by one, he unfastened the buttons of her blouse, revealing a black camisole. He traced the edge of the lace trim, and couldn’t help but notice the way her headlights shifted to high beam beneath the fabric. A faint chuckle escaped her lips.
“Ticklish?” he asked.
“No, I was thinking about how I thought if I wore the cami under my blouse, I wouldn’t be
sending messages that I wanted—to do what we’re doing.”
“Do you want me to stop?” His voice rasped.
In response, she took his hand and placed it over her breast. “No. But I’d like it if you’d kiss me, too.”
“That can be arranged.”
Time stopped as their mouths met, their tongues thrust and parried. He pulled her onto his lap so she straddled him. Not the best idea, as her bottom pressed against his arousal, and he feared control would become a serious issue all too soon. He kneaded her breasts. She rocked against him. Slowly. Rhythmically. He couldn’t help but follow.
“Please,” she whispered. “I want you. I want you tonight.”
He paused. Was it Ashley or Hennessy speaking? She’d said she wasn’t drunk. He was very close to not caring, but a scattering of brain cells nagged him that he shouldn’t be taking advantage of her if she wasn’t sober enough to make a rational decision. “You sure? Because in a few minutes, there won’t be any going back.”
“I’m sure. Life is about moving forward, not going back.” Her voice dropped to a faint whisper. “I’ve wanted this before tonight. Before last night.”
His brain attempted to process the pros and cons. Pros were easy. They were sitting on top of him, driving him almost brainless. The cons were in there somewhere. There were always cons. But right now, the pros had it.
He put his hands at her waist and shifted her up and back, away from the source of his dilemma. “Bedroom?”
She slid off his lap and extended her hands. He grasped them, accepting that she was offering the resistance he needed to lever his way to a standing position. Once upright, he wrapped his arm around her.
At the doorway to the bedroom, he stopped, turned her to face him seeing her eyes looking back at him in anticipation. Cradling her face, he kissed her forehead. “Last chance.”
***
Ashley tilted her face upward, wanting Scott’s lips away from her forehead and back on her mouth where they belonged. Was she crazy? So what if she was? She’d finally escaped living under the “We know what’s best for you, honey” sphere of her parents, of Barry. Over their objections, without their support, she’d picked up and followed her dream. Everything planned. Everything mapped out. Every option researched. Like a cake recipe. Baking was chemistry. You couldn’t get crazy or you’d end up with a disaster instead of cake.
Then Scott had appeared, bringing a new kind of chemistry. With him, planning and research disappeared from the formula. And doing something crazy—not that she thought there was anything crazy about the way she felt this minute—was her decision. If her cake fell, she’d deal with it. Every now and then an impulsive addition of a new ingredient turned into a delectable creation.
When he kissed her again, she was ready to empty her entire pantry into her mixer and to hell with the consequences. Tomorrow she could be sensible. Still lost in his kiss, she clutched Scott closer, dragging him into the bedroom. The back of her legs hit the bed, and she went down, bringing him with her.
He hissed. His breathing shifted. Still rapid, but not the same. Her heart rate spiked.
“Oh, my God. I hurt you. I forgot all about your accident.”
“Forget it.” His voice was a low growl. “I’ll be fine. Just a twinge. Caught me off guard.” He rolled off her and lay on his back, panting, his legs hanging off the edge of the bed.
She rose to a sitting position. The grimace on his face said it had been more than a twinge. Men. Macho above all else. “Should we even be doing this?”
His grimace passed, replaced by the lazy grin that made her tingle in all the right places. He pulled her down so she lay beside him. He stroked her cheek. “I was distracted, that’s all.” The grin faded. “But if you’ve changed your mind …”
While the mood wasn’t broken, given the way her tingles went off the scale simply from his touch, she took a moment to be sensible. “No, I haven’t.” She propped herself up on an elbow. “Do you have any … you know …?”
He reached into his pants pocket and tossed a condom packet onto the bed.
“So, you planned on this happening. Or are you always this prepared?”
“I was a cop, remember. Protecting people is ingrained.” He grinned and traced the lace on her cami again. “Shall we continue?”
“How about we get more comfortable?” She stood, then tugged at him, eyeing him warily for signs of pain. It was clear he had some difficulty rising to his feet, but she saw nothing but his gaze, fixed on hers. And then his mouth approaching for another kiss. Damn, the man could kiss.
Somehow, she managed to work the bedcovers down. She shrugged out of her blouse. Scott slipped a finger under the strap of her cami and eased it off her shoulder. His fingers moved beneath the lace, finding the nipple that begged for his touch.
She sought the buttons on his polo, yearning to bare his torso, to remove the layer of cotton between them. To put her hands on his chest. And lower. “Off,” she mumbled around their kissing. She pulled at the hem of his shirt. “Off.”
She felt his smile against her lips. Reluctantly, she released the connection. He winced as he worked the shirt upward.
Okay, so he was still in manly macho mode. Later … much later, she hoped … she’d tell him he was being a jerk. But not ready to spoil the mood, she pressed her hands against his shoulders. “Sit. I want to undress you.”
As she worked the shirt over his head, it was clear he favored one arm. She ran the tips of her fingers along his shoulder. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Dislocated shoulder. Broken collarbone. Not quite back to normal.”
He didn’t offer to elaborate. She straddled his lap again. “Does this hurt you?”
“Not nearly as much as stopping would.”
She took his hands, kissed his fingers, and placed them on her breasts, wriggling her hips and squirming against his touch. He removed one hand and nibbled her through the nylon cami. Pleasure shot through her. She closed her eyes, threw her head back. Reveled in the sensations coursing through her. He nipped harder.
She reached between them, for his belt buckle. “Now who’s doing the distracting? I wanted to undress you.” She got off his lap and worked the leather free. When he tried to help, she shoved his hands away. “Is there something about me undressing you you don’t understand? Hands off.” She dealt with the button, then slowly … ever so slowly … worked at the zipper, the quiet rasp and their breathing the only sounds in the room.
“Wait,” he said as she tried to work his khakis over his hips. “Shoes.”
She knelt at his feet, removing the brown leather loafers. Shiny brown leather loafers. The faint smell of shoe polish—and what it meant—excited her further.
“So, condoms and freshly shined shoes? You came here with expectations?”
“Mom always stressed how important it was to make a good impression.”
She laughed. “I’m guessing you’re wearing clean underwear, too. Boxers or briefs?”
“Keep doing what you’re doing and you’ll find out soon enough.”
Shoes and socks dispensed with, she moved up to his hips again. Eased his khakis over them. He didn’t seem to have trouble lifting himself enough to make that move possible. When she’d lowered them to his knees, he wriggled his legs, as if hurrying the process along.
Then she noticed the scars. She ran her finger over the pink lines along his thigh. He tensed beneath her touch.
“Same accident?”
He grunted. “Busted leg.”
Oh, there was more. But the important parts still worked, evidenced by the bulge in his underwear. Boxer briefs, she noted. Gray. She pulled the khakis all the way off. “That’s better.”
“Your turn,” he said, reaching for her.
She shook her head. “Nope. I can manage.” She kicked out of her flats and unfastened her slacks. About to yank them down her legs, she slowed. Instead, she undulated her hips as she inched them toward t
he floor. She fixed her eyes on his, knowing if she thought about what she was doing—a damn strip tease—she’d die of mortification. She’d definitely have to find a new place to live, for sure. And what if he didn’t like her clumsy attempt at seduction?
His hooded eyes, his parted lips, his rapid breathing said he did.
The cami came off a lot faster and a lot less seductively—who knew you could get turned on taking your own clothes off? Anxious to speed things along, she reached for her bra clasp.
“Please. Let me,” Scott said, his voice husky. “Come closer.”
Breasts aching, she stepped toward his outstretched hands. He embraced her, working the clasp behind her with his fingers while his mouth worked on the parts in front of her. She balanced herself on his shoulders, hoping she wasn’t hurting him, but knowing she’d dissolve in a puddle if she didn’t.
“I’m thinking this might be a good time to get horizontal,” she said.
He scooted onto the bed, lying on his side. She faced him, putting his hands back on her breasts. He kneaded, nuzzled, nibbled, nipped.
“You like that?” he whispered.
“God, yes. I could almost … you know.”
“What about this?” His fingers wandered down her chest, pausing to circle her navel before moving lower. He slipped one inside her panties, then inside her. She was wet—embarrassingly so. He teased, in, out, around, avoiding that spot craving attention. She squirmed, wriggled, thrust, an involuntary, demanding quest for release.
His grin widened. “Guess so.”
Finally, finally, finally, he rubbed her where it mattered. The world centered on that one spot. Her hips bucked. She moaned. “Oh, yes. Yes. Yes.”
He captured her mouth with his, swallowing her scream as the universe exploded around her.
Gasping for breath, she waited for her world to reassemble. Scott turned away, and she feared she’d done something to upset him. She shoved her hair off her sweat-filmed forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she said, afraid to touch him. “That was … selfish. I should have—”
