A parade of tingles marched down her spine. “Your cupboard was sort of bare— “
“I am a bachelor, you know,” he broke in, kissing the sensitive skin behind her ear.
Mind stuck out its tongue at Heart. Nah, nah, told ya.
Melanie shook her head to shut Mind up. “What we have here is my version of huevos rancheros.”
“Wow. I love it when you talk French.”
Melanie chuckled. “That was Spanish.”
He turned her around and laid one of those toe-curling, knee-weakening, slow, deep kisses on her.
“How long before breakfast is ready?” he asked, nibbling on her bottom lip.
“Why?”
He rubbed himself against her and Melanie realized he was naked. And fully aroused.
“Why do you think?” he asked.
Laughter bubbled up in her throat. “You can’t be serious.”
He leaned back and looked pointedly downward. “Do I look like I’m joking?” He started unbuttoning her shirt.
Melanie peeked down and gulped. Holy smokes. He was serious. “I thought you were hungry.”
The shirt hit the floor. He bent his head and fastened his lips on her nipple. “I’m starved,” he murmured.
The spatula slipped from Melanie’s fingers and clattered on the floor. She somehow had the presence of mind to reach behind her and turn down the stove before he scooped her up and carried her back to the bedroom and deposited her on the rumpled sheets where she landed with a bounce.
“I woke up and you were gone,” he said, kneeling between her splayed thighs. He ran a single finger between her breasts down to her navel. “I missed you.”
Melanie watched him, her heart speeding up as his finger continued on its lazy journey and played with the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
“I thought you wanted breakfast,” she murmured, hot desire shooting to her every nerve ending.
“I do. Later.” He leaned forward to kiss her stomach then dragged his tongue downward. “Right now I want you.”
“Oh, well, all right,” Melanie managed to say, her eyes drifting closed when he caressed the moist, swollen flesh between her legs with his very talented tongue. “If you insist.”
*
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, once again clad in Chris’s dress shirt, Melanie poked at the congealed mess in the frying pan.
“How do you like your eggs?” she called. “Black or brown?”
Chris walked into the kitchen, dressed in a clean T-shirt, a pair of khaki shorts and Topsiders. He looked over her shoulder and whistled.
“Yuck,” he said, shaking his head. “That looks like stuff you scrape off tires. Good thing I’m heading out to grab us some grub.”
Melanie cocked a brow at him. “This would have been a perfectly respectable breakfast if certain people hadn’t distracted the cook.”
He patted her behind. “Couldn’t help it. The cook was mighty distracting.”
She turned to face him. Dark stubble shaded his jaw, and his hair looked as if someone— namely her— had been running her fingers through it. He looked deliciously rumpled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, which, of course, was precisely the case.
“I think,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck, “that you are just easily distracted.”
“Funny thing is, I’m usually not.”
“Could have fooled me. As far as I can tell, you get aroused by a strong breeze. Not that I’m complaining.”
A frown bunched between his brows. “I get the impression that you think what happened between us last night is a normal and frequent occurrence for me.”
“Isn’t it?” Melanie shook her head in disbelief at her own question. She held up her hands. “No, never mind. I don’t want to know. It’s none of my business anyway.”
“None of your business?” he repeated, an incredulous note in his tone. “Oh, boy. Listen, we are going to talk about this. But later. I’m in serious need of sustenance. Why don’t you put on some coffee while I’m gone.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be right here.”
A slow smile curved his lips. “Then it seems I have you right where I want you.” He grabbed his keys and left, whistling slightly off key.
Standing in his kitchen, Melanie heard the front door click shut.
He was gone.
But definitely not forgotten.
*
WHEN CHRIS WALKED into his condo half an hour later, he was greeted by the heady aroma of fresh brewed coffee, the soft sounds of Jack Johnson on the stereo, and the woman of his dreams wearing his favorite dress shirt— and he was pretty sure nothing else, setting his table.
He stood in the archway leading into his kitchen, feasting his eyes on the sight of Melanie giving his counter a swipe with a sponge. From the top of her curly head to her bare feet, she looked disheveled and well loved.
And by God, that’s what she was.
Well loved.
She satisfied him more completely, fulfilled him more absolutely than any woman ever had. More than he’d believed was even possible.
The thing that surprised him was how calm he felt about loving her. Surely after waiting so long for his freedom he should be panicked— find himself in a frenzy to escape and cling to his bachelorhood. But no. Even though they hadn’t known each other that long, didn’t know every detail about each other, his heart knew she was The One. The One he wanted to spend his life with, wake up next to every morning, live with, love with, laugh with, and share everything with. His plan hadn’t been to find The One for another few years, but what the hell, he was flexible.
Now all he had to do was convince her.
She was understandably gun-shy of relationships, and he didn’t want to scare her off. Yet, his pesky inner voice yelled that persuading her to continue their relationship so she could realize he was her The One would be damned hard to do if he screwed up her chances of getting her loan. And unfortunately he knew information that would most likely do that very thing. If he told what he knew.
Damn.
He firmly told his pesky inner voice to shut up.
*
“THAT WAS A great breakfast,” Melanie said, leaning back and patting her full stomach. “Best cheese danish I’ve ever eaten.”
Chris winked at her. “You should try my cinnamon buns.”
She winked back. “I thought I already had.”
“Are we still talking about breakfast?”
“Beats me.” She pointed to the unpacked grocery bag on the counter. “What’s in there?”
Chris stretched out his legs and sipped his coffee. “Cake stuff.”
“What do you mean, ‘cake stuff?”
“Stuff to make a cake. It’s on your things-I-want-to-do-before-I-die list. Besides, you’re a gourmet cook. You should know what cake stuff is.”
Curious, Melanie reached in the bag and pulled out a box of chocolate cake mix. Next she pulled out a can of chocolate fudge frosting. She pulled out the last item and choked back a laugh.
“Condoms?” she asked, raising her brows. “What do condoms have to do with making cakes?”
“We have to do something while the cake is in the oven,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her onto his lap.
“The cake only has to bake for thirty-five minutes. This is a package of thirty-six condoms.”
“So we’ll have one left over.”
Melanie laughed. “Maybe we should try to pace ourselves.”
“No can do. In case you can’t tell, I want you again.”
“I can tell, and I must say I’m amazed. And flattered.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his stubbly jaw. “Don’t you ever get tired?”
“If you’d asked me that question last week, I would have said yes. Today, the answer is no. It appears that you are to me what spinach is to Popeye.” He nibbled on her neck. “One taste of you and I have the strength of a thousand men.”
“A thousand men? I think you’re gonna need some more condoms, Popeye.”
“Now you’re talkin’.” he said, chuckling. “But first we shower. Then we bake. Then… well, we’ll have to see.” He shot her an exaggerated leer. “I have a feeling we’ll find something to do.”
Melanie laughed at his expression and tried to ignore her racing pulse. Again she had to force herself to remember that this was an interlude. An affair. No commitments, no promises. She had to enjoy it while it lasted, then let it go. No more relationships for her. No way. Just fun and games.
Now all she had to do was convince her heart. Which, unfortunately, was proving far more difficult than she’d anticipated.
He wrapped his arms around her and stood then headed toward the bathroom. “Yes, a shower sounds perfect. You, me, naked, soapy. Perfect.”
Melanie clung to his shoulders and gave her best nonchalant shrug. “Oh, well, if you insist. Never let it be said that I haven’t done my part in the global water conservation effort.”
“Very green of you,” he said in an approving tone. He set her on her feet outside the shower then opened the glass door to turn on the water spray. “Besides, we have to do something to keep up with our tradition of getting wet every time we’re together.”
In the blink of an eye he stripped off his clothes then unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it off her shoulders. Whoa. He really was talented— and fast— with those hands. And speaking of hands, he held one out to her in invitation. “Come with me.”
“Hmmm. Now there’s a phrase that’s ripe with possibilities,” Melanie said, managing to keep her tone light in spite of the ever growing tightness in her throat. Her heart and mind were battling it out again in the Olympic love-versus-lust war. She had a sinking feeling that Heart was going to win.
She slipped her hand into his and stepped into the shower.
Oh, well. Let the Games begin.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
*
“YOU LOOK GREAT,” Chris said several hours later, leaning back to survey his handiwork. Melanie lay in the middle of his bed, naked except for several well-placed swirls of fluffy fudge frosting. “Fabulous, if I may say so myself.”
“This is not how you decorate a cake,” she informed him, squirming as he continued to “paint” her abdomen. “I’ve read dozens of cookbooks, and I’ve never seen instructions like this. If Betty Crocker even suspected what you’re doing with that frosting, she’d fall down in a dead faint.
He drew a heart around her navel. “Who?”
“Never mind. And this may come as a shock,” she added in a breathless voice, “but baking is normally done in the kitchen. Not the bedroom.”
“This is not baking,” Chris countered, dipping his finger into the frosting container and spreading another dab of chocolate icing on her nipple. “This is decorating. We burned the cake. I wouldn’t think of wasting all this great frosting.” He leaned forward and sampled the delectable treat he’d just made. “Delicious,” he pronounced.
Melanie leaned up on her elbows. “We did not burn the cake,” she informed him in a haughty tone that made him smile. ‘You burned the cake.”
“Only because you wouldn’t let me take it out of the oven when the timer went off.”
“Wouldn’t let you! How do you figure that?”
“You were on top,” he reminded her in a calm tone. He suppressed a laugh at the bright red blush creeping up her cheeks. “I couldn’t move.”
She shot him a dirty look. “Oh. Well, you could have moved if you’d wanted to.”
“Ah, but I didn’t want to.” He spread a thin layer of icing on her bottom lip. “I was very happy where I was.”
He watched her eyes darken with remembrance of their earlier lovemaking, and there it was again— that warm rush of love sweeping over him. It washed through him, leaving a lump in his throat that he had to struggle to swallow around.
Even though she hadn’t said so, he knew she was feeling the same things he was. She had to be. He could see it in her eyes every time she looked at him, feel it in her touch, taste it in her kiss. He wondered how she would react if he told her he loved her.
You idiot. She’d run like a scared rabbit. And that was the last thing he wanted. It was too soon.
Besides, what was the best way to tell her? Just open his mouth and let the words flop out? Or plan something elaborate? He’d have to think on it. Which was fine because he wanted the moment to be right and he needed to wait until she was ready. He’d give her another week. Nodding to himself, he decided that was fair. She could have one more week to realize they were meant to be together, and he’d have a week to figure out the best way to tell her he was ass over backwards, crazy in love with her. Then he’d tell her, she’d say she loved him back, and that would be that. Perfect.
A sobering thought burst through his reverie to dump all over his perfect mental scenario. What if she doesn’t love me? A shudder ran through him, and he swatted the disturbing idea aside.
She does. She has to. And if she doesn’t yet, she will . Right. ‘Cause he certainly wasn’t going to marry someone who didn’t love him. And since he was going to marry her, she just had to love him. Period. Bottom line. End of discussion.
He was about to dip his finger into the frosting again when his hand froze. Holy crap. Did I just think what I think I thought?
Sure did, buddy, his inner voice replied. You just thought the dreaded M word.
Marriage.
Lifelong commitment. House in the suburbs. Kids.
He sat perfectly still, waiting for panic to seize him.
Only panic never came.
Instead, a warmth unlike anything he’d ever felt suffused him. Like bachelors everywhere, he’d always avoided the M word like it harbored E. coli.
But not anymore. Not since he’d met Melanie. In fact—
“Are you okay?” Her voice penetrated his musings.
He looked at her, feeling dazed. “Huh?”
She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “I asked if you’re okay. You look like a piano just fell on your head.”
He laughed and wondered just what his expression looked like. “Squashed and half an inch high?”
“No. Kinda shocked, surprised, and… ” she peered at him, “green around the gills.” She grabbed the container of frosting from him and set it on the nightstand. “You’ve eaten enough of that. You’re obviously suffering from sugar-induced dementia.”
No. Actually he wasn’t suffering at all. In fact, he was happier than he’d ever been. He leaned over her and licked her bottom lip. “On the contrary, I haven’t had nearly enough.”
She leaned back and sighed. “You’ll get a tummy ache.”
“It’s not my tummy that’s aching.”
“Think of all those cavities.”
“I have a great dental plan,” he whispered against her lips. “Any more arguments?”
She arched against him. “Would there be any point?”
“Nope.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
He settled himself between her thighs. “Okay. If you insist.”
*
AT TEN O’CLOCK Sunday evening, Melanie sat in the Mercedes, her thoughts in turmoil. They would arrive at her house in less than five minutes, and she had no idea what to say to the man with whom she’d just spent the last thirty-six hours. Naked.
An offhand “Thanks, it’s been great” didn’t really seem appropriate, but neither did “I think I love you madly, please don’t make me go home.”
And unfortunately, now more than before, she stood in mortal danger of falling in love with him. Everything about him appealed to her. His smile. His laugh. The way he really listened when she talked. The way he made her feel in bed. Out of bed. They’d talked about everything from finance to politics to religion to books and movies. They agreed on all the important points, and on the lesser important ones where their opinions differed, their debates had been lively and
respectful. She’d never enjoyed conversing with a man more. He was intelligent, thoughtful, and made her feel like the most beautiful, desirable woman on the planet. Yup, it would be ridiculously easy to fall madly in love with him.
He had asked her to stay, but she’d somehow found the strength to say no. After spending only one night in his arms, she was addicted to the feel of him. The taste of him. If she stayed another night, her heart would suffer a fatal attack of the love-sickies.
Oh, who was she kidding? She already had the love-sickies so bad she was ready for the intensive care unit.
Which was really bad. If she had to fall for someone— not that she wanted to— but if she had to, a confirmed bachelor was most definitely not the smartest choice. In fact, it would win the gold medal for Most Idiotic.
She looked out the window and cursed her stupid hormones for getting her into this mess. It was entirely their fault. She should have shot those suckers dead the minute they started acting up. Bang! Death, followed by a hormone funeral and a brief period of mourning. Then back to her orderly life.
But nooooo. She had to meet Mr. Gorgeous. One look at him and all her plans had jumped out the window and plunged forty stories to their demise.
She sneaked a peek at him from the corner of her eyes. There he sat, calm, cool, collected, humming off-key to the radio, while she was suffering. Mr. Confirmed Bachelor had probably already forgotten about their time together. No doubt the minute he left her, he’d forget her name. She bet he’d come up with some excuse to not see her for the rest of the week, then conveniently “forget” to ever call her again. She’d become another statistic to be filed away in the dreaded Slept With The Dude Who Will Never Call You folder.
Well, that was fine. Who needed him anyway? They’d spent their time together, now it was finished. She’d go on with her life, he with his. Two ships that pass in the night, make love several times— okay, more like several dozen times— then say adios.
She needed to nip this now. She knew firsthand where falling in love left a person— in a big, dark, painful hole with your skin ripped off. It had taken her a long time to climb out of that dungeon once before, and she didn’t ever want to do it again.
Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set Page 114
