by Nina Lindsey
She flashed him a smile. She was so damned cute.
“You were respectful enough not to take advantage of me when I was in an…um, altered state,” Polly said. “So I will extend you the same courtesy.”
Luke sure as hell didn’t remember being respectful. He remembered pushing his tongue into her mouth and gripping her thighs and…
Stop.
“I’m not in an altered state,” he said.
“Lack of sleep leads to cognitive dysfunction, including bad judgment.”
“Wanting you is hardly bad judgment.”
Something flashed in her eyes that he didn’t like. She didn’t quite agree with his statement.
He led the way to his bedroom and pushed open the door. Polly stopped in the doorway, casting her gaze over the room with its linear black Faurschou cabinets and geometric Frank Stella painting above the bed.
“You were lying.” Polly gestured to the low, massive bed.
He followed her gaze to the pristine black comforter and black-and-white pillows perfectly arranged against the sleek, black leather headboard.
“Lying about what?” he asked.
“You said you had a huge, fluffy, four-poster bed with feather pillows.”
“I said I had a huge bed with feather pillows,” Luke corrected. “You were the one who used the words fluffy and four-poster.”
She crossed her arms, eyeing him suspiciously. “A huge bed implies soft, fluffy, and four-poster, not flat, uncomfortable, and Nordic minimalist. Is that even a real mattress?”
“Not only is it real, it’s a bespoke Savoir mattress made to my specifications and hand-stitched with chemical-free natural fibers like horsetail and lambs’ wool. There is no other mattress like it in the world.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows rose. “Well, aren’t you fancy?”
“More like well-slept.” He pulled back the comforter. “And while the mattress may look flat, I guarantee it isn’t uncomfortable. Try it.”
“Who am I, Goldilocks?” Her look of suspicion deepened. “I’m not trying your bed.”
“Then you can’t prove I was lying.”
She narrowed her eyes. Hah. She’d never be able to resist a challenge. He was starting to know more and more about her.
Polly approached the bed and sat gingerly on the edge, spreading her hands out over the black sheets. “What’s the thread count?”
“Over a thousand. One hundred percent Egyptian cotton.”
“Of course.” She wiggled backward onto the bed a little more, extending her legs. “Okay, it’s really nice. Firm, but not too firm. Soft, but not squishy.”
Just like her. Heat flooded his veins.
“So it was custom-made for you specifically?” she asked, bouncing a little as if she were testing the springs.
Luke’s gaze snapped like a magnet to her breasts, which jiggled in time with her bounces. Christ, she was killing him. He fought the urge to reach down and adjust his growing erection. His loose cotton pants wouldn’t conceal it for long.
“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “They tailor their mattresses to a customer’s height and weight.”
“So what happens when someone else sleeps here?” she asked. “If it was made just for you, does a woman get all Princess and the Pea about sleeping on it?”
What was it with her and fairytales? He didn’t want to think about any other woman except Polly sleeping in his bed.
He shrugged. “I haven’t had any complaints.”
“And these are really feather pillows?” She moved farther onto the bed and picked up one of them.
“Down, actually. Siberian white goose.”
Polly squeezed the pillow, then lay back on the others and shifted around like she was still testing out the comfort factor. She looked up at the ceiling and blew a curl of hair out of her eyes.
Then she rolled onto her right side, presenting Luke with an incredible view of her round ass beneath the stretched fabric of her dress. She rolled back to her left. He couldn’t take his eyes off her cleavage, which was even deeper with her breasts squeezed together like that.
He forced his gaze to the painting above the bed, trying to think of spreadsheets and profits. R&D. Product development. Aunt Julia. He let out a breath as his arousal began to wane.
“Okay, so it’s comfortable,” Polly admitted. “I don’t know that all your swanky bespoke and goose down makes it any more comfortable than my bed, but it’s nice.”
He approached her. “And what’s your bed like, Peach?”
“My bed?” She waved her hand loftily in the air and spoke in a British accent. “My bed is a bargain basement sale mattress with collapsing springs, cheap foam padding, and a deep sag in the middle designed specifically for the shape of my body.”
She shot him a grin. Though Luke smiled for her sake, something hard twisted in his chest at the thought that—joking aside—her description was even remotely accurate.
Polly shifted to one side of the bed, as if she were expecting him to lie down. He sat warily on the edge, not wanting to scare her. But she was gazing at the painting on the opposite wall, one hand behind her head and a thoughtful expression on her face.
Luke stretched out on the bed beside her, careful to make sure there was a good distance between them—which wasn’t difficult given the size of the mattress.
“I actually like that,” Polly remarked.
He looked at the painting, which was a splattering of black, gray, and white paint on a black canvas. Had he ever really looked at it before? After he’d bought the house, Julia had swept in with her Swedish interior designer and furnished the whole place. Luke had left her to it, not caring where he stored his clothes or what kind of table he sat at to eat breakfast.
He had ordered the mattress, though. Eight years ago, after Evan came home from a stay in the hospital, Luke had had one of the custom-made Savoir mattresses waiting in his brother’s house. Though Evan had protested the expense, after one night he’d lauded the bed’s comfort to such a degree that Luke hadn’t been able to resist ordering one for himself.
Evan had been right, too. The mattress, and resulting quality of sleep, was a luxury Luke didn’t regret.
Especially now that Polly Lockhart was lying next to him on it.
“It’s kind of free.” She spread her hand out to indicate the painting. “All the other art in this house is so geometric and symmetrical. But that one looks like the artist actually had some fun splashing paint on the canvas and maybe even going a little wild. It’s like a bunch of spun sugar strings all tangled together.”
When Luke didn’t respond, he sensed her look at him.
“Don’t you think?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
She shifted onto her side, facing him. Against his better judgment—because looking at Polly in his bed while lying beside her would be a monumental test of his self-control—Luke turned onto his side to face her too.
She looked good. He suspected she’d look good doing anything, but lying in his bed with her hair fanned out over her shoulders, her hands tucked beneath the goose-down pillow, and her brown eyes fixed on him with all that curious innocence…yeah, she looked edible good.
“Hi,” he said.
Polly smiled. “Hi. This is weird.”
“Yes, it is.”
“If you’d asked me three days ago if I thought I’d ever find myself in the fancy bespoke bed of the Sugar Rush CEO, I’d have said you were nuts.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Here I am.”
His for the taking.
She didn’t have to say it.
Luke had been around. A lot. He knew what women liked, what they wanted, what they needed. All he had to do was reach over and sink his hand into Polly’s soft hair, curl his palm around the back of her neck, and pull her gently toward him.
All he had to do was press his mouth against hers, tease the seam of her lips open with his tongue, and delve inside to taste
her sugar sweetness. All he had to do was slide one hand over her bare leg, up under her little skirt to find whatever scrap of lace she was wearing beneath.
She’d squirm and sigh, breathe whispers into his mouth, tentatively put her hand on his chest. All he had to do was tug her stretchy dress over her head to reveal the curves of her luscious body in her bra and panties—white lace, maybe, something she’d picked out because she was dressing up for their date. Nothing designer, no La Perla on her, just simple, sweet lingerie. She’d wiggle closer as if begging him to touch her.
And he would. He’d unclasp her bra and fondle her pretty breasts, lowering his head to lick her nipples and make her gasp. She’d watch him with a stunned kind of pleasure, as if she couldn’t believe what they were doing. When he eased his hand between her legs, he’d find her hot and ready.
She was ready now. He could have her for the rest of the night, for as long as he wanted. All he had to do was reach out with one hand.
He cupped the side of Polly’s face. Her breath caught, her lips parting slightly. He brushed his thumb across her lower lip, thinking he would probably hate himself for this in the morning.
“Go to sleep, Peach,” he said.
She blinked. Luke pulled away from her and turned off the lamp beside the bed. His heart was hammering. He lay down, his back to Polly, and closed his eyes.
Damned if it wasn’t the worst sleep of his life.
Chapter 8
Wow. Wasn’t that the best sleep of her life?
Polly looked at the ceiling, enjoying the sensation of the mattress embracing her. The foggy dawn light filtered through the white curtains along the wall, but she had no desire to leave the bed to open them.
She stretched, and her muscles lengthened gloriously. Her sleep had been deep and untroubled, the kind she’d had as a child when she hadn’t been worried about adult things like paying her rent and bills on time. The goose-down—Scandinavian goose down—pillows cradled her head like a cloud, and she swore there was some new zesty energy coursing through her veins.
Not to mention, even on a subconscious level she’d been deliciously aware of Luke’s strong body beside her, the soapy scent of him drifting into her dreams.
She turned to glance at him. He faced away from her, in the same position he’d been in when they’d gone to sleep. His shoulder muscles still looked strained beneath his navy T-shirt, the tendons in his neck still tight.
Polly lifted herself onto her elbow, her lovely relaxation fading a bit. She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. Sure enough, his muscles were all bunched up and tense.
He twitched. She pressed her fingers into his shoulder a little more to see if his muscles would loosen up at all. Hard as a rock.
Luke shifted, peering over his shoulder at her. His messy hair fell over his forehead and his face was set with irritation. He was all scruffy, dark-eyed male. She swallowed hard.
“What’re you doing?” His voice was rough.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did not.”
“Oh. I slept like a baby.”
Polly had never heard a man actually growl before, but she was pretty sure that was what Luke did.
He stabbed his finger at the door. “Guest bathroom down the hall has soap, towels, and toothbrushes.”
He threw the sheets aside and stalked into the bathroom, shutting the door hard behind him.
Okay, so he wasn’t a morning person.
His mention of a bathroom made Polly aware of her bladder, so she hurried down the hall to wash up and brush her teeth. She wiggled out of her too-tight pantyhose and rolled it into a ball. She even looked well-rested, she thought, studying herself in the mirror as she tugged a silver comb through her tangled hair.
She went downstairs to put her pantyhose in her purse. She retrieved her cell phone and checked in with Clementine, who had insisted on opening the bakery this morning after hearing about Polly’s date.
“Just in case the date goes long,” Clementine had said cheerfully.
Polly texted her that the date had, indeed, gone long, but due to the broken-down van and not other things.
Whatever you say, dear, Clementine texted back.
Polly rolled her eyes and headed back upstairs to talk to Luke about dealing with the van and getting home. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
“Luke?” Alarmed, she hurried to his side. “Are you all right?”
He looked up, his features still lined with fatigue. His hair was damp, and water trickled down his temples, like he’d dunked his head under the faucet.
“Did something happen in Venezuela?” Polly asked.
“Vene…” He shook his head. “No. Everything’s okay.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t sleep well.” She brushed a drop of water off his neck. “It must have been because I was here.”
“Yeah.” He sighed heavily and dragged a hand down his face. “It was because you were here.”
Polly tried to deflect a stab of hurt, along with the question of whether he slept badly when he was with any woman or if it had just been her. She didn’t actually want the answer to either question, hating the reminder that he had lots of other women, not wanting to believe he could be uncomfortable with her.
But if it was because of her…
She stepped back and gestured to the bed. “Lie down on your stomach.”
“What?”
“Come on.” She pressed on his shoulder to get him to do her bidding. “Face down.”
His eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he didn’t appear to have the energy to resist. He stretched out on the bed and pulled a pillow beneath his head.
Polly’s nerves suddenly tightened as she tracked her gaze over his broad shoulders and back, the material of his T-shirt fitting him like a second skin, and down to his very firm rear.
She took a breath, experiencing a sudden visceral memory of pressing herself against the front of his hard body. What would it feel like to press herself against the back of his hard body? Tingles surged through her.
Come on, Polly. Focus.
Luke had been very generous—and again, respectful—by letting her sleep in his bed and not once trying to touch her.
Wait a second. Aside from the caress on her cheek, why hadn’t he touched her? He obviously knew she still wanted him. Any woman would. And Polly could only partially blame the alcohol for how she’d acted at the Troll’s House because on a deep, primal level she’d just desired the man. She’d known the second she saw him again at Sugar Rush that her attraction to him was still hot and electric.
And given what he’d said about her hooking up with anyone but him…
She shook her head to dislodge her musings. The past forty-eight hours had been very odd indeed, so it would be best if she stepped back and reexamined this whole situation later—like on a day when she hadn’t woken up in a bed that probably cost more than the whole Wild Child building.
“Am I supposed to take a nap?” Luke turned his head on the pillow and opened one eye to peer at her. “Because I’m constitutionally incapable of sleeping past five in the morning.”
Polly glanced at the clock, which told her it was five thirty. Funny that both she and Luke Stone were naturally early risers.
“No.” She knelt on the bed beside him. “You’re just supposed to relax.”
“I’m constitutionally incapable of relaxing.”
“Not true. You’re a cardinal sign. Cardinal signs govern the seasons and have the power to change.”
He gave a faint laugh into the pillow. “All right, Peach. Prove I can relax.”
Polly’s heart sped up as she settled her hands on his shoulders. He tensed, a reaction that was neither reassuring nor flattering, but she tightened her grip and started to massage his rock-hard muscles. He was knotted up like a badly tied shoelace. After a few minutes of tentative rubbing, she got t
o her knees and put more force into her strokes.
Luke let out his breath. His muscles loosened a little, allowing her to slide her fingers to the back of his neck. The warmth of his skin flowed up her arms, and another sigh from him emboldened her further. She pushed her fingers into his hair, the thickness of it tickling her palms as she massaged his scalp, around his ears, then back down to his shoulders and his upper back, using slow even strokes.
There! His body began to slacken, his muscles becoming more pliable. She pressed her weight into her palms, making circular motions around his upper shoulders and digging her thumbs along the ridge of his spine.
He groaned. Groaned. A husky, masculine rumble whose effect on Polly’s nerves was in no way lost by the fact that it was muffled by a goose-down pillow.
“Where in the name of everything holy did you learn how to do this?” Luke asked, his voice thick.
“I grew up on a commune,” Polly said. “And one—”
“A commune?” Luke interrupted. “Like a hippie farm?”
“They’re called communes.” She deliberately pinched the back of his neck a little too hard. “Or intentional communities. Twelve Oaks is a lovely place near Santa Cruz. I lived there until I was nine. One of the residents was a massage therapist who would give free treatments to anyone who lived there. I’d help her set up and sometimes stay and watch. Then I’d practice massages on the cats and dogs that lived on the property. I was sort of like the local animal whisperer.”
“Well, now you’re the CEO Whisperer. Or a witch casting her spell. You could make a fortune with those hands.”
Polly thought that was what she was trying to do, but with baking rather than massages. She’d always liked helping people feel better, whether with massages, cookies, or home-brewed tea. But helping Luke Stone feel better was a whole new level of exceptional, and not because he was the CEO of Sugar Rush.
Because he was the hot, pool-playing guy from the Troll’s House who’d smiled at her and kissed her and made her feel alive again.
“Massages should be part of a holistic approach to total well-being.” She scooted back to run her hands over his shoulder blades. “The harmony of your body, mind, and soul. When those three areas are in balance, you can achieve your full life’s potential.”
