by Caro Carson
“We’re both uncommitted until Christmas Eve. What neighborly sorts of things could we put on the agenda?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered her honestly, “but I’m pretty certain it all begins with a Bloody Mary.”
Chapter Six
“Is this a test of my manhood?”
Aiden raised the Tabasco bottle in question. India had stopped skewering olives on cocktail picks to watch him when he’d picked up the hot-pepper sauce. “I ask because it seems like you are watching this pretty closely.”
She blushed at his question, even as she tossed back her hair with a flash of sexy, copper earrings. For such a bold woman, she sure did blush easily. It was a conundrum: was she ashamed of her own boldness?
Despite her pink cheeks, she looked up at him with a come-hither look, although she didn’t actually bat her eyelashes...but she came close. “I’m just curious to find out how hot you like it first thing in the morning.”
That was bold, all right. Aiden leaned over the marble island toward her and lowered his voice to something quieter, a tone of voice pitched only to carry across a pillow. “Tom mentioned you were a language expert. He didn’t tell me you spoke double entendre so fluently.”
Her blush turned to a flush—but she smiled. Truly, she was a puzzle.
“But maybe it’s a recently acquired language?” he asked. “You speak it well, but you’re not entirely comfortable with it, are you?”
“I’m only certified in German, Danish, Flemish and Dutch. The rest I pick up on my own by spending time with...native speakers.”
He chuckled at that. “I’ll do my best, but I may not be any better at it than you are.”
She did that thing again, that appraising look as her gaze drifted down his body, followed by a little showing of that dimple in one cheek, warmth in her approval. Or burning heat.
She twirled an olive on a pick. “It’s hard to believe that you’re new to this.”
You’ve got no idea how rusty I am at the game. “Since a gentleman would never kiss and tell, I can neither confirm nor deny anything.”
As he was still leaning over the island toward her, she leaned over the island toward him. It gave him an outstanding view down her V-necked shirt of curves and cleavage, but he wasn’t certain she realized it. He glanced but he didn’t stare, just in case it wasn’t an intentional invitation to look.
He was certain, however, that her purr was intentional as she spoke. “My question was, how hot do you like it in the morning? I’m talking about the Bloody Mary, of course.”
“That depends how good the vodka is,” he answered honestly. Let’s pace ourselves here, no rush. “What are we drinking?”
India opened a door in the island and pulled out a bottle of Russian vodka.
Aiden tipped the Tabasco over his glass. “One dash. That’s excellent vodka. I don’t want to kill my taste buds.” He waited a beat, until her gray eyes met his. “I’ll have to prove my manhood some other way.”
India snorted when she giggled. Aiden had to laugh. In fact, he’d laughed a lot this morning, since Major Woods had met him at the bridge.
She came around the island to stand close and raised her glass. “A toast.”
He raised his. “To what?”
“To...”
That blush really gave her away. She was telling him she was interested, but it wasn’t something she did very often with men she’d just met—if she’d ever tried it before at all.
If she was new at this, Aiden didn’t want her to put any pressure on herself. He tapped his glass to hers gently. “Let’s keep it simple. To Bloody Marys in the morning, hot or not.”
The tension left her shoulders. “To Bloody Marys.”
They sipped their drinks. He didn’t want to even attempt to calculate how long it had been since he’d had vodka before lunch. Rarely in the evenings, either. He’d rather head straight home to see his children than spend time at a bar with other adults. Poppy and Olympia weren’t here, though.
India was.
Aiden leaned against the island. “Nothing says you’re on vacation quite like having a cocktail before noon.”
“To vacations.”
They tapped glasses again, took longer drinks.
India sucked in a breath of air through pursed lips. “I might have made mine a little too spicy.”
“Let me see.” Aiden leaned forward with the vague idea of tasting her glass, but instead he kissed her lips. Softness. India was softness.
What the hell are you doing? That isn’t how it’s done. First, you ask her out to dinner.
India looked as surprised as he felt that he’d kissed her.
Damn, you’re rusty, Nord. Get your act together.
“Could you...?” She cleared her throat and set down her glass. “Could you do that again?”
More and more surprising...but she didn’t need to ask him twice. He kissed her soft lips once more, took an extra second to savor the sensation. Just a second.
She took a little breath against his lips and he barely, just barely, kept himself in check. They weren’t lovers. Her parted lips were not an invitation for him to taste her deeply, to make love to her mouth.
But that little breath hadn’t been displeasure, either. He set down his drink and very intentionally cupped her face in his hands. He kissed her softly on the corner of her mouth before he tilted her head back and kissed her chin. He smoothed his lips just an inch farther along her jawline, breathed her in. Another inch, and then he had to taste her skin on his tongue, just a taste, before placing another soft kiss there.
Her fingers fluttered a little bit on the island next to their drinks. He needed nothing more to know that she was enjoying his touch. He pulled back just far enough to see her face, anyway. Her eyes were closed. She looked relaxed, languid, lips just barely parted, a sleeping princess in a fairy tale.
He closed his eyes, too, and kissed her mouth once more. She made a little hum of a sound, and then she was kissing him back—harder. Mouths opened, heat built. Her arms were around his neck now, her body plastered against his—surely that had been of her own initiative, because he didn’t remember pulling her close—ah, those lips were so soft in a shorter, sweeter kiss, a pause before a second round of hotter, sexier kisses. He must have pulled her close because his arms were around her now, anchoring her to him as she kissed him like she wanted him.
He wanted her, too. Too much. Too intently. It was too easy to see her naked in his arms, on his pillow. He should stop this. He should slow things down.
“Aiden,” she whispered. “This is going to sound crazy, but...”
He kissed his way across her cheekbone to her ear, feeling her turn to liquid in his arms, her body heavier as she leaned into him, pliant under his touch. “But what?”
“But, I’m only going to be here for a week, and I know we just met, but...”
“But what?” He took her earlobe between his teeth gently, let go, nuzzled her hoop earring out of the way to kiss the soft spot just under her ear.
He felt her throat work as she swallowed, felt the vibration as she spoke. “Would you like to have sex with me?”
He was the one who turned to liquid. It was astounding, really, that he was still solid on his feet, standing on the kitchen tile.
“Just for fun?” she added. “I know it’s only lust, but...”
“Lust.” He smiled against her neck. He could handle lust.
“I know we’re strangers, but I’ve known Helen for ten years, and you’ve known her for...?”
“One.”
“For one. So, I’m pretty sure Helen’s battalion S-3 isn’t a serial killer—”
“India...” But he had to taste her again, taste this mouth that was his fantasy, the mouth that was saying words he wouldn’t have dared to dream she would say.
>
She was panting lightly as she broke off the kiss. Her hand at the back of his head kept his forehead pressed to hers. Did she think he would ever, ever back away as she whispered to him?
“And,” she whispered, “you have a safe bet that Helen’s good friend isn’t going to steal your wallet after she gives you an orgasm so great that you’ll have to sleep it off.”
Liquid: all his bones, all his muscles, melted with the rush of desire her words released, but he was taking her down with him, because he was never going to let her go. He cursed, one word, softly against her ear, as he fell back, only a foot until the hard marble edge of the counter cut across his backside. He slid a little lower and spread his legs a little wider, pulling India to him so she stood in the V of his legs, very close—God, he was hard and she was soft. That was right, that was good, and he was going to drown in it, gladly.
She was pressing him backward now, angling herself over him. He let her, because he loved the weight of her, the way she stayed when he let go, so he could bury his hands in her hair and tilt her head and kiss her fully, no holds barred, unrestrained. He made love to her mouth, and she met his passion, tasting him as boldly as he tasted her. Her fingers were clutching his shirt, digging into his right shoulder, his left biceps. He was aware of every little thing about her; he was lost in a wave of sensation.
“I’ve got—” she panted a moment “—a bed, just, just, just down the hall.”
Her difficulty getting out the words made him smile, too wide of a smile to keep kissing her. “Well, good, because this marble slab isn’t getting any softer.”
She took his hand, leading the way down the hall, her palm warm against his, her fingers sliding into place between his. Holding hands; he felt a small squeeze in his chest.
He pushed away the sensation and focused on the curve of her shoulder as she walked before him, and he imagined the way her hair would brush over that curve when her shoulder was as bare as he was going to make it in a moment.
“I’m using a guest bedroom,” she explained. “This one.”
Good. He wouldn’t have to wonder if it was polite to make love on Tom and Helen’s bed, although he was certain he would have overcome any etiquette issue in about a nanosecond.
He gave her guest room a quick glance. Moving boxes were still stacked in a tower in the corner. Pictures and a dresser mirror were leaning against the wall, waiting to be hung. There was a suitcase, a bed—a queen-size bed, its sheets rumpled from a sleepy woman.
“I didn’t make the bed this morning,” India said.
Aiden wondered why she’d think that was something to apologize for. He bent to kiss her quickly, reassuringly. “Waste of time, anyway.”
Impatient now, he smoothed her shirt up her body, dizzy with the sensation of her skin on his palms, with the sight of her skin being exposed to him. The shirt was pulled over her head and dropped to the floor. He gazed at her breasts, rounded and lifted by a smooth, nude bra, and he felt weak. He longed to reach behind her, to undo the clasp and cup those breasts with his hands, but his muscles wouldn’t obey his brain. She was too beautiful. He was helpless. Liquid.
He rested his forehead against hers.
She undid the buttons of his shirt with hands that trembled. He watched her fingers work, glad her arousal made it a little difficult, glad her arousal made her determined as she worked her way down to the last button, then pushed the shirt off his shoulders. He brought his wrists behind himself to tug off one cuff, then the other. If the motion made his chest and arm muscles flex, she seemed to like the show, because when the shirt hit the floor, she turned her face away from his and dropped her head to press her forehead against his collarbone instead. She exhaled, a sigh he felt on his skin, and his muscles were no longer liquid, and he was the furthest thing possible from helpless.
He lifted her face from his chest with one hand under her chin, then held her in place with a kiss as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, freeing an erection that had grown painful in the confining clothes. She wore no belt, so he unzipped her jeans with ease, exposing a V of smooth material, nude to match her bra. Not nude enough. The curve of her waist looked beautiful and felt beautiful as he slipped his fingertips under the elastic of her underwear. He smoothed his palms over her backside to push her jeans and underwear to the floor.
She inhaled, a tiny gasp of breath. He pulled her into him, nude woman against his unzipped jeans, and she gasped again. He’d thought to undo her bra next, but to hell with that, he needed to shuck off his own jeans. As they kissed—she tasted amazing, this woman did, like heat and life—he went to take his wallet out of his back pocket to toss on the dresser, an automatic motion from years of habit, but his back pocket was empty. Damn it, he’d been out walking a dog, not out on a date.
“India,” he said, but she kissed any further words away.
“India.” This time, he placed his hands gently on either side of her neck and smoothed his thumbs along her perfect jawline. “Not only do I not have a wallet for you to steal, I don’t have a condom, either.”
“I have an IUD.” Then her hands were caressing their way up his bare back, over his shoulders, but he didn’t move. He was struck still at the thought, the incredible thought, of being inside India, bare.
He couldn’t do it—he shouldn’t. He had annual physicals, he knew he was healthy, but they were strangers and it just wasn’t done. If a man respected a woman at all, if he respected himself, he used protection. He protected her and gave her some peace of mind. He always wore a condom.
The only exception: his wife.
He pushed away the thought—not now, not when everything India was all around him, her scent, the sound of her breath, the taste of her mouth, the softness of her skin. She’d gone still now, too, maybe realizing the implications of the words she’d just blurted out in the heat of the moment. He kept holding her neck gently between his hands as she opened her eyes, and the impact of those serious, silver eyes obliterated any thoughts outside of their two-person world. He cared for her. He wouldn’t take advantage of her; he gave her time to think.
“I may have a condom,” she said, and the blush was back. “Let me go see.”
He dropped his hands as she turned to go, but she realized her jeans were around her ankles and giggled, but it was a nervous giggle, no snort. He held her arm for balance as she kicked off the jeans. He was glad she hadn’t pulled them back up, although why he’d think that had been a possibility, he didn’t know.
She went into the bathroom, and he heard the distinctive sound of a woman sorting through a makeup bag, the clinking of plastic compacts and lipsticks and things.
Such a feminine sound. It made him smile as he laid on the bed and kicked his own jeans the rest of the way off, still letting the anticipation and arousal build. Even if she didn’t find a condom, he was going to enjoy her, savor her, learn her as he touched all of her soft skin. And, if her boldness held true, he’d feel her soft hands on him.
She came back in the room, naked but for her bra, a condom packet in her hand. When he saw it, the spike of anticipation was outright painful. Within the same fraction of a second, her gaze fell on him, the man who was stretched out on her bed, which made her stop and breathe an oh, and put her hand over her heart as if she was startled that he was there.
The foil packet touched her breast. She recovered quickly and smiled just a shade too brightly. “I did have one. I don’t know why. It’s from...a long time ago.”
He shook his head at her blush. “Major Woods?”
“Yes?”
“How old are you?”
She was surprised. “Thirty-two.”
He pushed himself up to reach for her hand and tugged her down to the mattress. “Then you don’t have to explain why you have a condom in a travel bag. I’m not expecting a virgin. I wouldn’t know what to do with you if you were.”
Yes, you would. The thought whispered through him as he watched her ease herself onto her side, facing him. There was something vulnerable about her.
You’d know what to do. If this were all new to her, he’d be deliberately gentle. He’d talk to her. He’d go slowly—but he’d be thorough. He’d make sure she loved her first time with him.
This was her first time with him, virgin or not.
The thought didn’t diminish his desire for her, but it changed the tenor of it. Fun? Yes, but this wasn’t anything like a game. That vulnerability called to something in him. Handle her with care.
She sat up again. “Oops. My bra.” She started to reach behind herself to unclasp it, but she had the condom packet in her hand. “Oh. I just—” She tried to laugh at her own clumsiness.
She didn’t strike him as a normally clumsy woman; she was nervous. Aiden gently took the packet out of her fingers, then deliberately kept his eyes on her face as she undid the clasp and her bra fell away. As she laid down again, he took in her reddened lips, her flushed skin, the way her breasts peaked, the way she slid her thighs together restlessly. She was aroused, without question, but she wasn’t touching him. Aroused, but nervous.
He reached over her head to set the condom packet behind her, next to the pillow, out of the way for now. Her eyes widened a little bit. “No rush,” he said. “We’re on vacation.”
“That’s true.” Her smile was a reward. He’d read her correctly.
Take your time with her. Talk to her.
But he had to touch her, this beautiful woman lying nude beside him. He put a hand on her waist and pushed with just enough pressure to let her know he wanted her to roll onto her back. He remembered to speak only after she’d already laid back, already understood his touch, but he explained himself, anyway. “You’re very beautiful. I want to see you. I’m glad it’s daylight.”
He stayed on his side, letting his gaze sweep down her body, a completely feminine body, nothing like his own, the yin to his yang.
His hand followed. Gently, slowly. Chest, breast, stomach. Brushing over curls, sliding down a thigh. He listened to her shallow breaths, watched her stretch one leg and point her toes, felt the rustle of movement as she lifted her arm and set her hand on his shoulder—and pulled him toward her.
