Playing with Fire: A Single Dad and Nanny Romance (Game Time Book 1)

by Alix Nichols

  “Satisfied?” Noah asks me.

  “Awed,” I say.

  When we get to his apartment, Oscar rushes to his water bowl and drinks thirstily.

  Noah kicks off his flip-flops. “You can keep yours on, if you want.”

  “No problem.” I slip out of my clogs. “The floor looks clean enough.”

  “It is clean,” he says, heading to the kitchen.

  I follow him.

  Noah opens the rosé and pours me a glass. “At what time do you usually eat dinner?”

  “Nine-ish. Typically a salad or a bowl of soup.”

  “I made a Caesar salad with chicken breast and mixed greens,” he declares not without pride and glances at the clock on the wall. “Will you be hungry enough in an hour?”

  “Think so.”

  A loud snore comes from the TV room, and I give Noah a quizzical look.

  “Oscar’s last nap before bedtime,” he explains.

  “Is he… snoring?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Cats don’t snore.” I quirk an eyebrow. “Neither do dogs, to my knowledge.”

  “He’s also part human,” Noah says, bounding around the table to plant himself next to me.

  “Of course he is.”

  Noah’s gaze settles on my lips and my heart begins to pound.

  I point to the rosé. “I thought you were a beer buff.”

  “Nah. I’m a wine person. I only drink beer in July and August to prevent my body from overheating.”

  “A wine lover, huh?” I tilt my head to the side, eyeing him up and down.

  He smirks. “I don’t fit the image of a wine connoisseur, do I?”

  I smile apologetically.

  He shrugs. “Appearances can be deceptive.”

  “So can words.” I jut out my chin in defiance. “What can you tell me about this wine, for instance, since you’re a connoisseur?”

  Picking up the bottle, he says, “Côtes de Provence Saint Victoire, 2015 vintage. A great Provence rosé. Dry with a hint of berries. It’s excellent with chicken, so be sure to leave some for the meal.”

  I lift my glass to my nose and sniff. “Anything else?”

  “This wine comes from the vineyards of the Négrel family in Provence,” Noah says. “They’ve been making it for 200 years.”

  My eyebrows crawl up. Could he be bluffing, inventing all this stuff on the fly? Unlikely. But even if he is, he deserves kudos for creativity.

  “Cheers,” I say.

  “Cheers.” He touches his glass to mine.

  We stare into each other’s eyes as we drink.

  Noah’s blue gaze holds such unambiguous intent, I cannot but respond. His desire is contagious. This man has accomplished quite a feat, come to think of it. He turns me on. I know I’ll enjoy his touch and I’m almost certain I’ll like his kisses.

  It’s what he’ll do afterward that has me on edge.

  The doorbell rings.

  Oscar runs to the foyer. When Noah and I get there, the dog is sitting in front of the door, wagging his tail. He looks at Noah with an almost palpable joy in his black eyes, like he knows who’s on the other side and is happy to see them.

  Noah opens the door to a coquettish gray-haired woman.

  Oscar begins to dance around her until she pets him and lets him give her a few generous licks. Then she straightens up and notices me.

  “Oh my!” She turns to Noah. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you had company tonight.”

  “That’s all right, Juliet,” Noah says. “Meet my friend Sophie.”

  Juliet grabs me by the shoulders and cheek kisses me. “So pleased to meet you, darling.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” I say, unsure how to act around this exuberant woman or what to think of her.

  “Hamlet and I just realized we’ve left our phone charger in the summer house,” she says to Noah. “I was wondering if we could borrow yours until I go to Darty tomorrow and buy a new one.”

  “Sure thing,” Noah says, heading down the hallway.

  To the bedroom, I presume. Which I’ll most likely discover later tonight. I exhale a shallow breath.

  “Hamlet—that’s my husband—is too dependent on his phone,” Juliet explains to me. “Email, Facebook, Solitaire… Me? I only ever remember I have a phone when someone calls me. Are you a smartphone addict, too?”

  “I’m somewhere between you and your husband,” I say with a smile.

  She smiles back. “You’re even prettier than Noah said.”

  “He told you about me?”

  “Just that he’s been hanging out with a lovely American girl.”

  “I see.”

  Noah returns with a charger and hands it to Juliet.

  “Guess what,” she says to him. “I’m making your favorite boreks, tabbouleh, and dolma next Sunday.”

  Noah widens his eyes. “All three at once?”

  She nods smugly. “Why don’t the both of you come over for dinner?”

  “You must taste Juliet’s dolma,” Noah says to me before I can invent a polite excuse. “It’s out of this world. And her boreks are to die for.”

  “What’s a borek?” I ask.

  Juliet gives me a sympathetic look, sighs, and shakes her head as if to say she’s really sorry about my sad borek-less life. But she doesn’t offer a definition.

  Neither does Noah.

  “I have a prior—” I begin.

  “That’s settled, then.” Juliet pats my cheek. “See you at dinnertime next Sunday, darling.”

  She waves good-bye to Noah and crosses the landing to her apartment.

  I wait until Noah has shut the door behind her and cross my arms over my chest. “Did I just get signed up for a dinner with total strangers even though I was saying no thanks?”

  He gives me a please-don’t-shoot-me look. “You don’t have to go if you really hate the sound of it, but trust me, you’ll miss out on the best dolma this side of the Seine.”

  I sigh and unfold my arms. “Fine, fine.”

  “Cool,” he says, grinning.

  “I assume I just met Madame Derzian, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “And her first name is Juliet.”

  He nods.

  I narrow my eyes. “And her husband’s name is Hamlet.”

  He nods again.

  “They are well matched.” I bite my bottom lip to stifle a smile.

  “Don’t laugh,” Noah says.

  “Sorry.”

  “I mean, don’t laugh yet, not until you hear what they’ve named their children.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Their son’s name is Romeo, and their daughter is called Ophelia.”

  This is too precious to be true. “You’re messing with me.”

  “I swear I’m not,” he says, drawing closer. “It’s their Armenian sense of humor. Ever heard of Radio Yerevan?”

  I shake my head.

  “They’re famous for their political jokes,” he says. “My father was a big fan.”

  Is there a touch of nostalgia in Noah’s voice at the mention of his “nasty piece of work” dad? Something doesn’t compute…

  “An example?” I ask.

  He wrinkles his brow. “I can think of only one right now, and it isn’t political.”

  “That’s OK.”

  “Radio Yerevan was asked, What’s an exchange of opinions?” Noah pauses for effect. “Radio Yerevan answered, It’s when you enter your boss’s office with your opinion and walk out with his.”

  I giggle, following him back to the kitchen.

  Noah sets his glass on the table. “Back to the Derzians. Obviously, Juliet and Hamlet didn’t fall in love to form a Shakespearean couple. It was a coincidence.”

  “That’s good to know,” I say, wondering what his next move will be.

  “Both names just happened to be popular among Lebanese Armenians at the time.” He takes my glass from my hand and places it next to his. “But their children’s names are quite
intentional.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “It was Juliet’s idea. Apparently, Hamlet wasn’t too keen, but she couldn’t resist the temptation.”

  I shake my head in fake reproof. “Women.”

  “Hear, hear!” He encases my face with his big hands and stares at my mouth as if he wants to devour it.

  I suppose, that’s exactly what he wants given the hunger in his darkened eyes.

  “I sometimes wonder,” he says, his gaze still on my lips, “if women enjoy watching a man almost lose it with want.”

  His voice is hoarse and incredibly sexy.

  Those hands on my cheeks, that voice, that look…

  “Wonder no more,” I murmur. “They do.”

  Without any warning, his mouth is on mine. He presses a soft kiss to my lips and my eyelids drop. Stroking my face, he brushes his lips over my chin, jawline, and throat, before returning to my mouth.

  I kiss him back. His lips are warm and a little wet from the wine.

  While both of his hands still cup my face, Noah sweeps his tongue over my lower lip. He lingers in the right corner of my mouth, kisses it, and moves to the left corner.

  I force my eyelids to open so I can watch his face while he’s kissing me like this. What I see is sexy as hell. His eyes are glazed over with desire, his ruggedly handsome face flushed with need.

  I don’t know about women in general, but admittedly frigid Sophie Bander enjoys watching a man almost lose it with want.

  If that man is Noah Masson.

  “Sophie,” he rasps against my mouth.

  A shiver runs down my spine.

  He slides the tip of his tongue between my lips, coaxing me to open them.

  I do, gladly.

  Next thing I know, we’re both lost in a hot, raw, openmouthed kiss. I feel lightheaded as his tongue thrusts against my palate and strokes the inside of my teeth. When he caresses my tongue, I stroke his, getting drunk on his delicious wine-infused taste. I hear myself moan softly.

  I could cry with how sweet this moment is.

  Why didn’t anyone tell me kissing could feel like this?

  Even with our mouths joined, there’s still a good inch between our bodies. Noah slides one hand down the side of my neck. For a few moments, he rests it—hot and fingers splayed—at the back of my shoulders. Then, applying the tiniest amount of pressure, he nudges me closer until my nipples touch his chest.

  Through two thin layers of fabric, the contact sets off a spark, electrifying me. My nipples are engorged and rock hard. I had no idea they could be like this.

  Noah’s kiss grows hungrier, rougher. Gripping the back of my head, he draws me as close as possible without crushing me against his chest.

  I delve my hand into his soft wavy hair as I revel in being held like this, kissed like this, desired like this by a man I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since meeting him.

  When he breaks away, I follow his lips, hungry for more.

  “Sophie,” he says, taking a step back. “Wait. There’s something I need to ask first.”

  With an enormous effort, I steady myself and focus on his eyes.

  He takes a deep breath. “Are you sure it’s me you want?”

  THIRTEEN

  NOAH

  She blinks. “What?”

  “I wouldn’t want to…”—I search for a good word—“derail you.”

  She stares at me, still confused.

  Cut to the chase, Noah. Ask her the question you know you should’ve asked already, before you brought her here, before you pulled her into your arms in the bivvy.

  Even if it means shooting yourself in the foot.

  I tip my head back for a second and look straight into her beautiful eyes. “What about Zach?”

  “Ah,” she breathes out as comprehension hits her.

  “Isn’t it him you really want?”

  “I do,” she says. “I mean, not your Zach, but someone like him in a couple of years when I’m back in Key West and ready to settle down.”

  I exhale slowly.

  She smiles. “But right now, here on my Parisian internship-slash-holiday, it’s you that I want.”

  My shoulders sag with relief.

  Keeping Sophie for me when I’m supposed to set her up with Zach still doesn’t feel kosher. But, at least, I know where I stand now. Sophie isn’t kissing me because she can’t decide between me and Zach or because Zach is taking too long to ask her out.

  She’s kissing me because she chose me.

  Even if it’s just for the duration of her Parisian holiday. Actually, that’s fine by me. More than fine—it’s perfect. Haven’t I, too, been thinking of another woman for when I’m ready to settle down?

  I peer at Sophie, taking in the bounty the universe deemed appropriate to drop onto my lap.

  She chuckles softly. “You look like you just won Olympic gold.”

  “It feels that way,” I admit.

  Taking a step toward her, I back her against the wall, lean in, and place my hands on either side of her face.

  Her smile slips, giving way to a wild mixture of emotions that flicker in her expressive eyes. There’s desire and excitement, for sure, but there’s also anxiety. Not surprising, given her history of ham-handed men.

  I’ll tread softly.

  “Bébé,” I say planting a gentle kiss to her forehead. “If I start doing something you don’t like, or don’t feel ready for, just say it. OK?”

  She nods, her expression relaxing. “Go easy, please?”

  “I promise.”

  She places her hands on my chest, stroking it. Her lovely fingers trail my collarbones, my throat, run down my shoulders, and then return to my chest.

  “You’re perfect,” she says. “Better than my secret fantasy.”

  “What’s your fantasy?”

  She cocks her head. “Don’t you know the meaning of the word secret?”

  “Have mercy!” I plead. “Now that you disclosed you have a secret fantasy, you must tell me what it is, or I’ll wither and die of frustration.”

  She hesitates for a brief moment and shrugs. “Oh well, here goes. My secret fantasy has always been a blue-eyed American football quarterback.”

  A happy grin spreads on my face, no matter how hard I try to suppress it.

  Her gaze zeroes in on my pectorals. “But I’ll take a French water polo goalie any day.”

  “Take him today,” I say, catching her chin between my thumb and forefinger.

  And then I kiss her hard, the way I’ve been dying to kiss her for several weeks now.

  She lets me. Better than that, she responds, delving her hands into my hair. Her heavenly breath—chocolate, wine, and Sophie—makes me wild with lust. As I explore the tender interior of her mouth, a sense of urgency comes over me. I haven’t forgotten my promise to go easy, and I’m fully prepared to freeze the moment she lets me know it’s too much, or too soon. But until that moment, I’ll push my sweet Sophie to see how far she’ll let me go.

  I break the kiss.

  She sways, panting, her eyes glazed with desire.

  “Bedroom.” I say. “Unless you want me to take you right here up against this wall.”

  Say yes.

  The image of Sophie impaled on my cock, back to the wall, makes my hands tremble. I picture her in that position—legs locked around my waist, breasts bared and bobbing as I pound into her with all I’ve got.

  Jesus Christ.

  What happened to not rushing it? So much for my self-control… The need in my loins is killing all my good intentions. This woman has bewitched me.

  The moment those words form in my mind, shame hits me in the solar plexus, making me choke.

  What’s wrong with you, man?

  Blaming a woman’s charms for your own failure to show restraint is… cheap, to put it mildly. It’s what bad lovers do. It’s what rapists do.

  Say no, Sophie.

  She blinks and swallows. “Bedroom.”

  T
hank you!

  I grab her hand and lead her through the TV room to the bedroom.

  It’s bathed in the golden light of the setting sun as we enter.

  I turn to Sophie. “Too much light?”

  She nods.

  I go to the window and draw the curtains, leaving a narrow gap. When I return by her side, she’s already taken her shorts off and is reaching for the hem of her tee. I watch, mesmerized. She pulls it up over her tummy, breasts, and over her head.

  Spellbound, I follow her every move.

  Sophie lowers her arms and drops her T-shirt to the floor.

  I suck in a sharp breath, awed by what she’s uncovered to my eyes.

  Wrapped in a flimsy cotton bra with a floral pattern and a tiny pink bow tie in the middle, her pert, full breasts are the best gift I’ve ever received. They’re perfection itself—the very essence of femininity. Her erect nipples pebble the fabric in the center of each breast.

  I kind of knew already her breasts were out of this world—summer materials don’t leave much to the imagination—but seeing them like this robs my lungs of air.

  I yank off my T and take a step toward her.

  She reaches for my belt and tugs on it. My breaths come shallow and fast, as she undoes the buckle and draws the zipper of my jeans down. Slowly, she works my pants down my hips and thighs. When they fall to the floor, I step out of them.

  She stares at my tented boxer briefs.

  If only I could tell if it’s anticipation or anxiety that heaves her chest!

  She unclasps her bra, freeing her gorgeous boobs. I cup the left one, and nearly growl with the pleasure of it. Her breast is firm, soft and smooth, and it fits snugly in my palm as if it belongs there. Which it does.

  I cover her right breast with my other hand, and just hold her like that for a moment.

  She smiles. “Big hands and a good grip are definitely an asset, huh?”

  “I’m glad you agree,” I mutter as I begin to fondle the treasure in my hands and kiss every inch of her face.

  A good ten minutes later, I slip my thumbs into the waistband of her panties and push them over her hips and down her thighs.

  My hand slides between her legs before she’s done shaking her panties off her ankle. I can’t wait. Backing her to the bed, I yank off my briefs, crawl up, and loom over her.