“A movie?”
“Sure.”
She sighed. “How long is this chicken piccata going to take?”
“About twenty-five minutes.”
“Then I guess I’ll go upstairs and take a bath...letting my naked body soak in warm scented bubbles while you’re busy down here.”
It was satisfying to hear the crack of the foam packaging as his fingers tightened on it. Not as satisfying as various other scenarios she’d considered, but at least she knew he’d be thinking about her.
Chapter Twelve
She did take a bath, letting the warm scented bubbles relax her mind and body. They had more success with her mind, because she believed he meant it when he said he wanted her—he just had some warped sense of propriety and concerns about timing. But her body wasn’t nearly as willing to forgive him. Whether it was the result of a crappy day or something more, she desperately wanted to feel good—and she knew Marco could make her feel good.
She considered her options as she toweled off and rubbed lotion on her skin, and decided there was only one course of action: she had to seduce him.
She found candles in the linen closet—a dozen votives in clear glass holders that she set around her bedroom to provide gentle, dancing light. Then she opened the pink bag and lifted out the tissue-wrapped garments she’d purchased on a whim a few days earlier when she’d been thinking about Marco. She looked at the bed and debated with herself for half a minute before she pulled down the covers and fluffed the pillows. She was aiming for seduction rather than subtle.
She carried her shoes down the stairs, to preserve the element of surprise. As she slipped her feet into the skinny four-inch heels, she experienced a brief moment of doubt—a quick flash of uncertainty—that he might still reject her. Then she remembered the heat in his eyes when he looked at her, the hunger in his lips when he kissed her, and—most telling—the press of his arousal against her, and she knew that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. He just needed a little persuasion.
She squared her shoulders, checked the bow between her breasts, straightened the edge of a stocking and marched into the kitchen to persuade him.
* * *
Marco heard the click of her shoes on the tile.
“Good timing,” he said. “Dinner will be—”
The rest of the words dried up in his mouth when he turned and saw her standing in the doorway.
She looked like a vision out of an erotic fantasy, but he blinked once, twice and she was still there. Dressed in a skimpy baby doll, thigh-high stockings and skyscraper heels. The black lace ensemble was set off with subtle touches of pink in the ribbon straps and the bow between her breasts. The effect was somehow both sexy and sweet, and the fact that Jordyn was wearing it: irresistible.
She was temptation wrapped in seductive fantasy and sinful promise, and he was helpless to resist her.
“I guess we’re not going out to see a movie.” They were the first words that came to mind, and they spilled out uncensored.
Her slow smile was sexy...and just a little bit smug.
“We’re not going out,” she confirmed.
She picked up the two glasses of wine she’d poured earlier and offered one to him. He took both from her and set them down again. Then he took her hands and drew her closer. Her fingers were cold and trembled a little, reassuring him that he wasn’t the only one who was nervous about the next step.
“I didn’t stand a chance,” he murmured.
“That was the plan,” she admitted, guiding him out of the kitchen.
He followed her to the stairs. In fact, he had one foot on the bottom tread before he remembered the chicken. He raced back to the kitchen to turn off the heat under the pan, then raced back to her again.
“Do I get a copy of this plan?” he asked, following her into her bedroom.
“Not necessary.” She closed the door to keep the cat out in the hall, which Gryff protested—loudly. “I think we can improvise from here.”
“I can improvise,” he agreed. “But I should probably warn you, I took one look at you wearing that, and I was halfway to the finish line already.”
She laughed softly as she tugged his shirt out of his pants. “Let’s see what we can do to enjoy the rest of the journey.”
He slid his hands beneath the ruffled hem of her top to stroke up the silky skin of her torso.
She sighed her appreciation. “That’s a good start.”
He captured her mouth with his own. Her lips were soft and warm and welcoming. His tongue swept along the seam, and she parted for him, meeting the searching thrusts with teasing parries.
She unfastened the buttons of his shirt and pushed it over his shoulders. Then her hands were on him, her fingers gliding over his skin, her nails scraping lightly. She found the buckle of his belt, unfastened it, then did the same with the button and zipper of his pants.
“You don’t believe in slow, do you?”
“I haven’t had sex in more than three years,” she told him. “I don’t need slow—I just need you.”
The words wrapped around his heart as silkily as her fingers wrapped around him. He sucked in a breath as his eyes rolled back.
He caught her wrist and pulled her hand away.
She pouted. “Don’t you like it when I touch you?”
He nibbled on her lower lip. “You know I do.”
“Then let me—”
“No.” He kissed her slowly, deeply, as he eased her back onto the bed. “It’s been a long time for me, too, and I’ve waited too long for this—for you—to risk it being over before we’ve really begun.”
His lips moved down her throat, over the curve of her breast. His tongue teased her through the delicate fabric. He found her nipple, already beaded into a tight point, pressing against the lace, begging for his attention. He gave it—licking and circling and sucking. She closed her eyes, feeling the tension build in her core and the pooling of moisture between her thighs.
“Marco.” She couldn’t manage anything more than his name, and even that was more of a sigh than a whisper.
He sat back on his heels and lifted one of her feet off the bed. “These are sexy as hell,” he said, as he tugged the shoe off her foot. “They also look dangerous.”
His hand slid over her foot, his thumb tracing the arch, his fingers skimming her ankle, slowly trailing up the back of her leg to the top of her stocking. He traced the edge of the lace, all the way around her leg, smiling when he heard her breath catch. He pressed his mouth to the ultrasensitive skin above her stocking, on the inside of her thigh, and the breath shuddered out of her lungs. He slowly peeled the delicate silk hose down her leg, then followed the same routine with her other shoe and stocking.
She blew out a shaky breath. “You know how you said you were halfway to the finish line?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He parted the sides of her top to press his lips to the soft skin just above her navel.
“Well, I’ve caught up.”
“Good to know.” His teeth caught the end of the satin bow that held the skimpy top together between her breasts and tugged.
The tie slid free easily, and he parted the fabric, exposing her skin to the cool air and his heated gaze. Then his mouth was on her again, wet and hungry, with no barrier between his eager lips and tongue, and her sensitive flesh.
There was a tiny swatch of lace between her thighs, and he quickly dispensed with that, too. His hands slid down her sides, his thumbs hooking into the satin ribbon that held it in place at her hips, and tugged it down her legs.
“You are so beautiful.”
She was naked now, totally exposed, but she didn’t feel self-conscious at all. The way he looked at her, the way he touched her, made her feel beautiful.
“So are you,” she told him si
ncerely, her eyes glued to him as he stripped away the last of his clothes.
His skin was dusky in the flickering light, his muscles hard and smooth as if sculpted from flawless marble. There was a light dusting of hair on his chest—dark, springy curls. He knelt over her on the bed and she slid her hands up his torso, over the rippling abs to his pectorals, marveling at the contrast between his strength and his tenderness.
He kissed her again, long and slow and deep, then his lips moved down her body, over her tummy, lower.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He parted her thighs, then the slick folds of skin at their apex. Then his mouth was on her, his lips and his tongue stroking and sucking in a way that launched rockets of sensation shooting through every part of her body in a sensual assault that seemed as if it would never end. When it finally did, when her body was trembling with the aftershocks of so much pleasure, she somehow still felt unfulfilled. She wanted—needed—him inside her. “Now, Marco. Please.”
He rose up over her, nudging her legs farther apart, then pulled back abruptly.
“Condom,” he suddenly remembered.
She blew out a shaky breath. “Under the pillow.”
His brows lifted. “You really did think of everything.”
“I didn’t want any excuses or delays.”
“I like a woman who knows what she wants.” He opened the package and sheathed himself.
“I do know what I want.” She slid her hands up his chest to his shoulders, then pulled him down to her again. “And I want you.”
He positioned himself between her thighs and entered her in one long, deep thrust. She gasped as he filled her, tilting her hips to take him even deeper. Sensations battered at her from every direction, tossing her around like an untethered lifeboat on stormy seas. But Marco was there, holding on to her as the climax washed over her, as she shuddered through wave after wave of sensation.
And then, when she was fully and completely spent, when she was certain there was absolutely nothing left inside her, he found more. He stroked deep and sent her flying again. But this time, finally, he soared with her.
* * *
They were tangled together in the sheets, sated and satisfied, when the silence was broken by a low, deep growl.
The hand that had been stroking down Jordyn’s back stilled. “I thought Gryffindor was in the hall.”
“He is,” she admitted. “That was my stomach.”
“You didn’t have dinner,” Marco remembered.
“Well, other things took precedence,” she said, sounding content.
Then her stomach growled again.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s see if there’s any hope of salvaging the chicken I left on the stove.”
It turned out that there was no hope—and no chicken. Where Marco expected to find dry, shriveled cutlets, there was nothing but some congealed sauce in the pan.
“I think Gryff ate our dinner.”
He looked at the twenty-plus-pound cat, sitting on a velvet cushion in the corner of the room, contentedly washing himself. He shook his head, not believing an animal that size could possibly have maneuvered himself onto the counter. “Seriously?”
“He’s surprisingly agile when he wants to be,” Jordyn said. “And it’s probably my fault—I was so preoccupied with getting you naked that I forgot to give him his dinner.”
“So much for proving my culinary prowess,” he grumbled.
She opened the refrigerator, peered inside. “There’s some leftover pizza in here.”
He made a face. “You’ve also got eggs, milk and bread.”
“French toast?”
“It’s quick and easy and beats leftover pizza.”
“Even if it’s Valentino’s pizza?” she challenged him.
“Yes, if it’s Marco’s French toast.”
“Now you’ve piqued my curiosity,” she admitted.
He took the eggs and milk from the fridge. “I’m going to need a bowl, a whisk, a spatula and a frying pan.”
She gave him the bowl first, and he began cracking eggs while she gathered the rest of the equipment for him.
He opened a cupboard beside the stove and searched through the bottles of spices—adding a couple of dashes and sprinkles without letting her see what he was putting into the bowl.
She watched him work, his movements confident and competent. “You’re a nurturer,” she realized.
He turned on the element under the frying pan. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s in your nature to take care of people,” she explained. “You listen when they talk, you understand and anticipate their needs, and you try to fulfill them.”
“You got all of that from watching me whisk some eggs?”
“Not just from the eggs,” she acknowledged. “I’ve seen you with Renata and Craig, I’ve watched you with your nieces, I’ve heard you talk about your brothers, and I’ve observed your interactions with the guys at O’Reilly’s.”
He dipped the first slice of bread into the egg mixture. “Sounds like you’ve been keeping a pretty close eye on me,” he teased.
“I guess I have,” she admitted.
“Sounds like you might even like me a little.”
She smiled at that. “I might. A little.”
He dropped the bread into the hot pan, then glanced over at her. “And why does that worry you?”
To her credit, she didn’t deny that it did. “Because I think you’re looking for more than I can give you.”
“Have I asked you for anything?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I hear the way you talk about each of your siblings and their significant others, and I know you want the same kind of committed, long-term relationship that they’ve all found.”
“That’s true,” he confirmed. “But I’m happy to take things one day at a time.”
“I don’t know that I can give you anything more than this one day.”
“That’s okay—because I do.”
She huffed out a breath. “You’re stubborn.”
“I would have said ‘determined,’ but ‘stubborn’ works.”
“It doesn’t work for me.”
He slid the French toast out of the pan and onto her plate. “Eat.”
Because it smelled good and she was hungry, she picked up her knife and fork and cut into the bread, then dipped it into the small puddle of syrup she’d poured on her plate.
“This is really good.” She popped another bite into her mouth. “What’s your secret?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?”
“Cinnamon?” she guessed.
He just sat down across from her and cut into his own meal.
She savored another bite. “There’s definitely cinnamon,” she decided. “But there’s something else, too.”
“Eggs and milk.”
“Besides the basic ingredients, I meant.”
He just shrugged, refusing to give anything away. Jordyn decided to give up trying to figure out his secret and just enjoy it.
She couldn’t remember Brian ever making a meal for her. Not even a sandwich for lunch—even when he was making one for himself. Of course, he’d been an only child—accustomed to fending only for himself. Marco had grown up with two brothers and a sister.
And why was she making comparisons between Brian and Marco? She’d been head over heels in love with her fiancé and planning to spend the rest of her life with him. She was twisted up in lust for Marco and planning only to spend the rest of the night with him.
“What are you thinking about?” Marco asked.
“What?”
“You suddenly got this really faraway look in your eyes,” he told her.
She shook her head. “It wasn’t anything important.”
“You were thinking about your fiancé, weren’t you?”
She dropped her gaze to her plate, swirled a piece of bread through the syrup. “Not on purpose.”
“Well, I guess it’s better now than an hour ago.”
She winced at the slight edge in his voice. “Actually, I was just thinking how nice this was—having you cook for me, because Brian never did.”
“It’s only French toast,” he pointed out.
“He never even made me regular toast,” she admitted.
“You almost had chicken piccata,” he reminded her.
She smiled. “I got something better...and then I got French toast.”
“Something better, huh?”
“Well, not having experienced your chicken piccata, I don’t really know for sure,” she teased. “But I have no complaints.”
He cleared their plates off the table and dumped them into the sink. “Let’s go back upstairs and see if I can make sure you have no complaints again.”
“Let’s,” she agreed.
* * *
Jordyn was in the kitchen, savoring her first cup of coffee of the day, when her sister wandered in.
Tristyn halted in midstride on her way to the coffeemaker, her glance shifting from Jordyn to the bathroom overhead, where the shower was clearly running.
“I was just wondering...” Tristyn began.
Jordyn lifted her cup to her lips, certain she knew where the conversation was going.
“...if you’re here in the kitchen, and I’m here in the kitchen, who could be in the shower?”
“That is a good question,” she agreed.
“Would it be safe to assume it’s the owner of the SUV parked in our driveway?”
“I would think so.”
“And since I’ve seen that same vehicle frequently parked behind Valentino’s restaurant, I’m led to the inevitable conclusion that Marco Palermo spent the night in your bed.”
“Wow, Sherlock Holmes had nothing on you,” Jordyn said.
“So—” Tristyn took a bowl of strawberries out of the fridge and popped one in her mouth “—how was he?”
The Bachelor Takes a Bride (Those Engaging Garretts!) Page 14