Melt Into You

by Lisa Plumley

  Nah. She still would have done it, Natasha decided as she ducked back into the steamy bathroom to retrieve her big, empty Guinness bottle. She would have done it because it was fun.

  When she turned back, Damon was in the doorway. He stood there shirtless, holding a change of clothes and a fresh towel, looking handsome and rugged and badly in need of a shave to tame his ten-o’clock shadow. While she took in his appearance, he stared in a strangely revelatory fashion at her feet.

  “You have a toe ring.” He pointed. “That’s new.”

  “Actually, it’s old. I’ve had it as long as my belly ring.”

  “Oh. You have a navel piercing, too?” At her nod, his dark eyes flared with interest. “Part of your hidden artistic side?”

  “Mmm.” An airy wave. “I guess you could say that.”

  “I like your hidden artistic side.”

  “I think you said that already.”

  “It’s even truer right now.” Damon sent his gaze wandering over her bare legs, robe-covered middle, and faintly water-beaded cleavage. “I’d like to introduce your secret artistic side to my blatant seductive side. I think they’d hit it off.”

  Natasha smiled. “I think so, too.” With a fresh sense of anticipation, she dragged her empty Guinness bottle from Damon’s abdominals to his chest, traveling over all the muscles and skin she intended to get to know better with her hands later. She ended just beneath his chin. She used her bottle to nudge his jaw upward, so he was looking at her face. “Enjoy your shower. I’m pretty sure there’s only cold water left … but you probably could use some of that right about now anyway.”

  He quirked his brow. “Why? I’m not feeling especially hot.”

  “Oh, you will be,” Natasha promised. “Just watch.”

  Then she tore herself away, turned with a flourish that she knew darn well made her short robe and chemise twirl enticingly around her thighs, and headed for the kitchen. Given the way she felt, she couldn’t help turning the whole endeavor into a sexy, look-at-me, bump-and-grind routine … just for Damon’s enjoyment.

  This time, no pipsqueaky voice wrecked her moment. Milo must be asleep, Natasha realized with new excitement. Hurray!

  Then, emboldened by her own seductive courage, Natasha picked up her pace and ventured into the kitchen. What she needed now was just a teensy bit more Guinness … and maybe a tiny bite of chocolate-caramel truffle, too. That ought to give her enough oomph to follow through on her plan … and then some.

  When Damon emerged from the shower minutes later, freshly shaved, wearing a pair of low-slung, drawstring-waist casual pants and anticipating some grown-up time with Natasha, the first thing he glimpsed was Natasha, bent over the sofa as she made up the cushions for him with sheets and pillows and a blanket.

  It only seemed reasonable to stop and enjoy the view. So Damon did. He watched as Natasha stretched farther, making her short robe ride up the back of her thighs. He watched as she bent to scoop up a fallen pillow, making her nightwear all but indecent. He watched, leaning on the doorjamb, as she flopped in a leggy, freewheeling fashion on the makeshift bed she’d just made, grabbed a bottle of Guinness stout, slugged back the last of it, then sighed with obvious and goofily endearing gusto.

  As he watched, Natasha picked up a truffle from a nearby Torrance Chocolates box. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the chocolate’s sweet fragrance. She paused, obviously savoring its depth and complexity. She brought it to her mouth, but she didn’t eat it yet. Reflexively, Damon felt his own mouth water.

  The variety Natasha had selected was one of his favorites; he recognized its distinctive shape. But as Natasha rubbed the truffle sensuously along her lower lip, still delaying its consumption, then flicked her tongue to give it a tiny lick, his response had nothing to do with wanting chocolate and everything to do with wanting her mouth. As Damon watched Natasha give another, surer lick, he suddenly understood the reaction he’d gotten at the farmers market today with his orange wedge.

  Natasha might be innocently tasting, but Damon was not-so-innocently imagining things she probably didn’t intend.

  Just when he was about to make his presence known, Natasha finally bit into her truffle. The chocolate’s caramel center must have oozed out, because she cried out with delight and dismay, then lapped up the caramel. Resourcefully and eagerly, she used her tongue to push back the rest of the sweet, gooey center, then allowed the bite she’d taken to melt in her mouth.

  “Mmmm.” With a groan of pleasure, Natasha flung out her arms, being careful not to let the other half of her truffle touch the sheets and blanket. She gave a happy little wiggle—one that made Damon smile. She popped the other bite of chocolate into her mouth, closed her eyes to savor it, then moaned.

  In that moment, Damon was gone. He might not be good at keeping track of Natasha’s personal life—he still couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized she’d gotten divorced without him noticing—but he was good at recognizing pleasure. Just like him, he saw, Natasha was good at taking pleasure. Really good.

  It was all over her face as she savored her chocolate.

  If Damon had felt guilty about kissing Natasha before, he didn’t now. If he’d felt sorry for putting her in the path of temptation by being there when Paul wasn’t, he didn’t now. If he’d resisted giving in to his curiosity about her warmth, her surprising sex appeal, her arty side and her intelligence and her humor and her supple, fascinating hips … he didn’t now.

  Because now he meant to seduce Natasha guilt free. He meant to take them as far as they could go. If she stopped him …

  Well, she wouldn’t stop him. Damon knew that. Everything about the way Natasha looked at him, talked to him, touched him … it all told him that. In his pleasure-packed life, Damon had seduced a lot of women, for a lot of reasons. He’d enjoyed every single minute of it. But this, tonight, with Natasha …

  This meant something to him. Damon hoped it would mean something to her, too. Because after having been so oblivious for so long—after having been so self-absorbed and so blind to her life for so long—Damon felt compelled to pay attention now.

  With that in mind, he took a leisurely step forward. “If everyone ate chocolate the way you do,” he said with a smile, “visiting our boutiques would be an X-rated activity.”

  Caught by surprise, Natasha gave a wide-eyed scramble to get upright on the sofa. She yanked down her robe, patted her cleavage, then self-consciously eyed her debauched duo of Guinness and chocolate. “I eat chocolate like a normal person!” she protested. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about savoring. I’m talking about indulging.” Damon came closer. He scrutinized the box of truffles, took his time choosing one, then looked at it. He transferred his gaze from the chocolate to Natasha’s face. “I’m talking about being so caught up in the pleasure of the moment that you don’t care who’s watching you.” He raised his brows. “Another one?”

  Mutely, she shook her head. While he’d been busy selecting a truffle, Natasha seemed to have noticed that Damon was almost naked. Except for his loose, hip-riding pants, he was naked. He’d forgone his usual boxer briefs tonight, deliberately opting to wear as little as possible now that he no longer had to strive for decorum or show respect for Paul’s primacy here.

  Because Paul didn’t have primacy here; tonight, Damon did.

  To prove it, he swept his gaze boldly over Natasha’s body. He took in her long, soft-looking legs and her scantily covered thighs. He looked at her hips and her nipped-in waist. He gazed at her breasts and her shoulders, at her face and her hair… .

  He swerved back to her breasts, drawn to the faint shadow of cleavage there and the unmistakable beading of her nipples displayed by her tiny, lightweight gown. Natasha’s robe had fallen open during her truffle-eating escapade, Damon noticed, and the garment beneath it wasn’t much more than a silky scrap of floral fabric. Those skinny straps at her shoulders would probably snap if he looked at them too roughly.
He approved. He intended to try out his theory at the earliest opportunity.

  But first …

  “If you don’t eat it,” Damon said as he offered her the chocolate again, along with a smile, “I will. Last chance.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not hungry anymore.” With that said, Natasha seemed to belatedly remember something. She snapped her gaze away from his naked, water-beaded torso, then jerked upright. She draped herself in a suggestive pose. “I mean,” she added in a throaty voice, “I’m not hungry … for more truffles.”

  She was one lascivious eyebrow-waggle away from performing a full hip-swinging, eyelash-batting, ribaldry-packed Mae West routine. This, Damon realized, was Natasha actively being sexy for him, just the way she’d done while sashaying away when they’d met at the bathroom door tonight. While he liked that she was taking the initiative, he couldn’t help feeling that she’d been even more irresistible when she hadn’t been trying so hard. Just by being herself, in all her serious and gawky and openhearted and silly glory, Natasha was … amazing. And sexy.

  “I’m hungry,” Natasha purred, “for you.”

  With a wobbly smile, she lurched upright. She teetered. Her robe slipped off one shoulder, revealing pale skin and the utter flimsiness of her gown’s strap. Experimentally, Damon scowled at it. Sadly, it didn’t cooperatively snap—as he’d imagined it might—beneath the force of his glare alone. He’d have to be more proactive than that. He’d have to kiss Natasha’s bare shoulder, slide his fingertips under that strap, lower it until her gown followed its inevitable trajectory and bared her breasts, too … .

  Damon imagined them, naked and pert, waiting for his hands. He pictured himself touching her, cupping her breasts, slowly rubbing his thumbs over the soft pink crests of her nipples as—

  “I want you, Damon,” Natasha said, tipsily crashing into him. She pushed her hands on his chest to steady herself, peered in confusion at her palms and spread fingers, then did it again. With woozy intensity, she caressed him. “Mmm. You feel good! And tonight, you’re safe! I can do whatever I want with you.”

  She was, Damon realized, a little bit drunk on Guinness.

  She was also under the impression that he was “safe.”

  “I’ve never been accused of being ‘safe’ before,” he said with amusement. He was anything but that—especially now that he knew Natasha was free to be with him. “And as far as doing whatever you want with me goes … don’t I have any say in that?”

  “Sure!” She gazed at his face. “You can say yes. Hey, you shaved.” She rubbed her hand on his jaw. “Feels nice. Too much stubble isn’t good, you know.” She broke off, delivering him another vaudeville-worthy leer. “It chafes your thighs.”

  “My thighs?”

  “My thighs. If you had your head between them before you shaved, it would feel so …” On the verge of completing that titillating statement, Natasha spied the chocolate in his hand. He’d forgotten to set it aside. Her eyes brightened with glee. “Hey! That’s my other favorite kind of truffle.”

  She grabbed his hand. She steered it to her mouth. She gobbled the truffle from his fingers with tipsy enthusiasm.

  Then, to Damon’s openmouthed astonishment, Natasha licked the leftover melted chocolate from his fingertips. She moaned with enjoyment, then moved on to lap up another pesky chocolate smudge from a different finger. By the time she popped his whole index finger in her mouth to suck up all the sweetness there, Damon suddenly wished chocolate had a much lower melting point.

  He also wished Natasha wasn’t quite so drunk. He couldn’t seduce her properly if she wouldn’t even remember it tomorrow.

  “Exactly how much Guinness have you had?” he asked.

  “Mmm.” Her mumbled, incoherent reply vibrated against his finger. He felt that vibration all the way to his groin. There, it awakened his already aroused instincts to take what Natasha was offering and make the most of it. His pants suddenly felt a lot less loose … especially once Natasha gave another, “Mm-mmm.”

  Energetically, she swiped his finger clean with her tongue. Damon couldn’t help drawing a sensory parallel between the way her mouth felt—and looked—on his finger, and the way it would look if she grabbed his cock, lowered her head, took him in—

  “About twice as much as usual,” Natasha answered, having casually quit sucking his finger. She gave him a sparkly-eyed look, then daintily dabbed her finger at the corner of her mouth as though she’d just enjoyed a delicacy. She smiled. “Which means two. Two big bottles of Guinness.” Helpfully, Natasha held up two fingers in a V shape. “But that doesn’t mean I’m drunk, Damon. I just wanted to cut loose a little. You know—to have fun! To make the most of having you here, before you pick one of those farmers market floozies instead of me.” She gave a mighty frown. “You know it’s going to happen, because—”

  “It’s not going to happen.”

  Damon didn’t want to have this conversation. He really didn’t want to hear Natasha liken him to her bastard ex-husband, Paul, who must have told Natasha he’d chosen Juanita over her.

  He also didn’t want to be reminded of what a jerk he’d been all these years. That only made Damon remember how he’d neglected Natasha without meaning to. Because after all, she’d had a baby without him noticing! In hindsight, he did recall a long stint they’d spent working remotely, with Damon traveling to open all those international Torrance Chocolates boutiques and Natasha staying behind to “run things” in San Diego; that partly accounted for his obtuseness, as did the fact that she’d deliberately hidden her private life. But Natasha had also endured the breakup of her marriage without Damon detecting a single ripple in her outwardly composed and cheerful demeanor.

  It was almost as though, by shutting off his romantic feelings for Natasha on her first memorable day at Torrance Chocolates, Damon had inadvertently become oblivious to the rest of her, too. There had to be a way to make up for that.

  Once he found it, he was going to do it. Immediately.

  “—because you’ve never even looked twice at me until now,” Natasha rambled on, “and now you’re only doing it because you need me to help you, and that won’t last long because I can tell that your good luck is on the rebound already, which means the clock is ticking, and I have to get busy making you do what I want before I lose my chance. That’s why I had two bottles!”

  Only one part of that semi-slurred declaration seemed relevant to Damon just then. Only one part was actionable in that moment. “So what do you want?” he asked, feeling a sizzle of anticipation as he did. “What do you want to make me do?”

  “First?” Natasha raised her face to his. “Kiss me.”

  It sounded like a good idea. And because Damon felt sorry for the way Natasha must have felt when her marriage had broken up, and because he knew damn well that he hadn’t been there for her when it had happened, and because now he knew that he’d let her down unforgivably then and so many times later, Damon decided to add a little something extra when he agreed to Natasha’s demand—when he cupped her jaw in his hand, pulled her closer, then brought his mouth to hers.

  He added love to the mix when he kissed her again. Because he did love Natasha, Damon realized in that crazy, mixed-up moment of kissing and breathing and clinging and hoping. He loved her in the way he used to love parties and tequila. He loved her irrefutably. Irresistibly. Irrationally. And exactly like those intoxicating activities had done, kissing Natasha made him feel drunk with possibility … with ravaging hunger for more.

  There had never been enough of anything to satisfy him, Damon realized in that moment. Because you could never get enough of the things you didn’t truly want and didn’t genuinely need. You could never get enough of substitutes for the real things in life. But with Natasha, Damon did want. He did need.

  With Natasha, there was hope for more, he realized as he held her. There was hope for everything—hope that if he kissed her again, if he brought his other hand to her other jaw and held her steady while he
opened his mouth still wider to kiss her and kiss her, everything would be all right somehow.

  And it was. It was better than all right. Feeling buzzed and urgent and weirdly overheated, Damon kissed her again.

  He slid his hands to the back of her head, tangling her silky hair, losing himself in her warm, wet mouth, knowing that this was more than just a kiss. It was a beginning. It was him telling her that he needed her, that he wanted her, that he recognized her wicked Mae West and met her with his best Cary Grant, note for note. Why don’t you come up and see me sometime?

  So Damon did. He saw Natasha through all the wonder and solemnity and extra-hot passion she aroused in him. When he finally leaned back, Natasha was gazing at him with stars in her eyes. Or maybe that was all the stout she’d drunk. Either way, she looked pretty and sexy and enthralled. While Damon was accustomed to pretty women looking at him, and sexy women propositioning him, and all women liking to be with him, what he wasn’t used to was having all those things at once from Natasha.

  The effect almost bowled him over. He’d waited much too long to experience this. Next to this, everything else felt meaningless. All he wanted was Natasha, in his arms, smiling at him and touching him and—

  “Second,” she announced, “undress me.”

  Damon’s whole body leaped with readiness. It wouldn’t take much to undress her; already her clothes were threatening to fall off. It was almost as though the universe wanted them to be together this way—wanted them to love and be loved, together.