Almost of its own accord, his hand slid down to her slender waist, then lower, flirting with the curve of her bottom.
When he realized what he was doing he froze. He’d been about to grab Lucy’s butt! He forced himself to ease his grip on her, to gradually pull away.
She looked up at him with those vibrant green eyes still dewy with tears, her pink mouth slightly parted. And the expression in her eyes, one of such utter trust, did him in completely.
No one had ever looked at him that way. Before he knew what was happening, he bent his head and closed the few inches between them, capturing those moist, pink lips with his.
Her lips were rose-petal soft, and as open and giving as a rose in full bloom, too. Bryan’s energy collided and melded with Lucy’s as their vibrations became one, breathing and heartbeats in sync, until he wasn’t sure where he ended and she began.
His body, which had been tuned to Lucy’s station almost from the moment they met, leaped to life with a craving so keen it was painful.
She tasted faintly of the wine she’d been drinking, and he tasted more deeply, coaxing her with his tongue to open even more. She did without hesitation. Again the utter trust she showed blew him away.
It was that trust that finally dragged him to his senses. He could not take advantage of this situation. He’d gotten Lucy into her current position and had promised to protect her. She was depending on him for everything—food, clothing, shelter. To abuse his position was unconscionable.
He pulled back again, and this time he put his hands on her bare arms and gently pushed her away as he broke the kiss.
“We shouldn’t do this.”
She blinked a couple of times, and he wondered if he imagined the hurt look in her eyes. But in the span of another heartbeat, she smiled mischievously. “Why not? We’re supposed to be smitten. I was just playing the part.”
“Honey, if that was acting, you deserve an Academy Award.”
“I’m very talented,” she agreed, leaving him to wonder what exactly she meant by that. A talented actress? Or talented in other ways?
As they turned toward the staircase, Lucy boldly put her hand on his butt and squeezed. “Very talented.”
So, no ambiguity there. She’d practically issued an engraved invitation that she was open to making love.
Regrettably, it was one invitation he was going to have to decline. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t think about it—which he did, through the remainder of dessert and after-dinner coffee, through the farewell hugs and promises to drive carefully, and throughout the drive home.
He was as primed as a sixteen-year-old on his first car date—and unfortunately about as likely to get lucky. Every time he glanced over at her, her blond hair swirling about her face from the breeze coming through the moon roof, her eyes drowsy from good food and wine and pure exhaustion, he wanted to come out of his skin.
He escorted her to the elevator in his building, careful not to touch her. “I’ll be up in a few minutes,” he said. “I need to check on things at the restaurant.”
She glanced at her watch. “Isn’t the restaurant closed?”
“Uh, right. I need to be sure things are ready for tomorrow.” Which was a silly reply, because Lucy knew Stash took care of the day-to-day concerns. But it was the best he could come up with. He couldn’t possibly go up to his apartment with her until he had his libido under control. In his current state, she had only to hint at seduction and he would be at her mercy. Seeing as how he didn’t know what she had in mind, he thought it would be safer to keep his distance.
“All right. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow. Oh, and Lucy, you did great tonight. Posing as Lindsay, I mean. I don’t think anyone in my family suspects a thing.”
“I’m not so sure about that, but thanks.”
He gave the verbal command that would send the elevator up to his loft, then stepped out and let the doors close between them.
He used his key to get into the darkened restaurant. What he needed was to burn off excess energy, and whipping something up in the kitchen ought to do the trick, he thought. Something decadent, something with chocolate and bourbon, the best substitutes for sex he could think of.
Maeve had given him his love for fine food. When his brother and cousins were outside playing and he couldn’t join in because of his heart ailment, Maeve would take him into the kitchen. He would pick out a recipe from her many boxes and cookbooks, and together they would cook. He learned to associate the heady smells of yeast and chocolate and toasted almonds with happy times, and to this day puttering in the kitchen could take the edge off when he was tense, or when he had to figure something out.
His plan was to dream up a new dessert and play around with the ingredients while he put some serious thought to how to track down Stungun—and either rescue him, find out who killed him—or bring him to justice if he was the traitor.
Instead, his thoughts turned again and again to Lucy—how she’d looked on the beach with the wind in her hair and her clothes molded against her body, the strength in her stance and the vulnerability in her face, her intelligence and bravery.
Soon he had three different sauces on the stove and he was going to work on some heavy cream with the KitchenAid mixer. An orange cake was in the oven—not one of these fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth cakes, but something with some substance. He didn’t yet know what the end product would be, but he planned to eat the whole thing himself, until his appetites were subdued—or he was too sick to even think about making love to Lucy. Only then could he return to his apartment.
Lucy lay in her bed in one of her slinky new nighties, trying her best to find sleep. But she couldn’t help thinking about the kiss on the beach.
That kiss had been no acting job, on her part or Bryan’s. She’d tasted the naked desire in the kiss, sharp as a knife and strong as a tidal wave. She’d felt the answering call in herself, a yearning so strong she couldn’t deny it. She’d floated on air the rest of the long evening at The Tides, unbothered now by the Elliotts’ noisy bickering, not nervous about carrying off her role as Lindsay Morgan. She’d played her part well—really well, apparently, given what was happening between herself and Bryan.
The only question left was, would they act on the waves of desire coursing between them?
She knew she wanted to, and she’d let Bryan know her feelings in no uncertain terms. But she still wasn’t sure what he wanted. He hadn’t said a word about it during the silent drive home.
Now, as the minutes clicked by on her bedside clock, it became more and more evident that he wouldn’t come to her. He was staying away on purpose, trying to avoid any awkward good-night scenes.
She knew that for him to make love to her would cross an ethical boundary, and she respected Bryan’s wish not to mix his professional life with his personal.
But how often did two people resonate the way she and Bryan did? How did one simply turn one’s back on those feelings?
She couldn’t do it.
When more than an hour had passed, Lucy’s frustrations turned to worry. What was keeping him? What could he possibly have to check on at the restaurant that would take this long? Had something happened to him?
When she couldn’t stand not knowing any longer, Lucy got out of bed and threw on a pair of warmup pants and a T-shirt. Hardly clothing designed for seduction, but seduction was far from her mind now. She put on her glasses—a new, more stylish pair with lightweight lenses Bryan had insisted on when they’d ordered her contacts—and headed for the elevator.
She could get out of Bryan’s apartment, but unless she found him, she couldn’t get back in. So she took a few dollars with her and Scarlet’s phone number, in case she got locked out. Then she got in the elevator and headed down to the restaurant level.
The restaurant had been dark when they’d arrived home, but she could see a light coming from somewhere now. She tried the door. It was locked, so she banged loudly.
At first no one came, and Lucy envisioned the worst—Bryan lying on the floor in a pool of blood, helpless to answer her knock. But finally she saw a shadowy figure approaching. Apprehension seized her, followed quickly by a rush of relief when the figure resolved into Bryan’s familiar form.
He turned the dead bolt and opened the door. “Lucy, what are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about you when you didn’t come back.” She realized how stupid that sounded. She was worried about a superspy, so she was coming downstairs to rescue him?
He smiled indulgently at her. “Thank you for worrying. And I’m sorry, but I got caught up—”
“What is that smell?” she demanded, cutting him off. She yanked the door open wide enough that she could slide inside past Bryan. The smell coming from the kitchen drew her like the pied piper’s music.
“It’s just a…dessert.”
“After all the food we ate at your grandparents’ house, you were hungry?” But even as she said that, her own stomach growled, reacting to the commingled scents. Whatever was cooking, she wanted some of it.
“Cooking helps me think,” he said.
She zeroed in on the tall cake sitting on a cooling rack. “Orange, that’s what I smell.”
“Right. It’s an orange pound cake.”
“And chocolate. And…bourbon?”
“You have a good nose.”
“What is this dessert?” she asked, intrigued.
“I don’t know yet. I’m making it up as I go along.”
Lucy inspected the sauces slowly simmering on the stove, taking a good whiff of each one. Her mouth watered. Unable to resist, she dipped a finger in the warm chocolate sauce and took a taste.
“Mmmm.”
“Lucy! This is a restaurant. You can’t do that.”
“You’re not actually going to serve that cake to patrons, are you?”
“I can’t now.” But he grinned. “Actually, I was planning to eat the whole thing myself.”
“Not without my help, you don’t. What comes next?”
She watched as Bryan used a very sharp knife to cut the cake into four layers, all perfectly uniform. “You’re good with a knife,” she said.
“I’m good with all my tools,” he replied, paying her back for her saucy comments on the beach earlier.
“I’ll bet you are.”
He gave her a warning look, then returned his attention to the cake. He spread fresh whipped cream on the bottom layer, then spooned on some of the chocolate sauce and set the second layer on top. Then came more whipped cream and the bourbon sauce, and another layer. Yet more whipped cream, more chocolate sauce, and some toasted almonds, and the final layer.
“I want to drizzle a glaze on top, but I’m not sure what to flavor it with. Lemon?”
Lucy shook her head. “Too much citrus. I don’t know what I’m talking about, but how about crème de menthe? When I was little, I used to mix orange sherbet with mint-chocolate-chip ice cream.”
“You innovator, you.” He grinned. “Okay, what the hell.” He quickly mixed up a glaze, adding a dash of spearmint extract rather than crème de menthe, which he thought might compete with the bourbon. He garnished the cake with orange slices and sprigs of fresh mint.
“It’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen,” she said reverently.
“You’re not laying it on a little thick, are you?”
“No. It’s a work of art. Shame to cut into it. But you are going to cut into it, aren’t you?” she asked anxiously.
In answer he got out two plates, then wielded his knife and spatula to cut two perfectly uniform slices, which he laid on the plates sideways. He topped each with another small dollop of whipped cream and a mint leaf.
“Presentation is everything.”
Lucy knew she should be admiring the dessert. But she’d eyed a small spot of whipped cream on Bryan’s cheek, and she became fixated on it.
“What?” he asked.
“You have whipped cream on your face.”
“Oh.” He rubbed one side of his face with the dishcloth he kept over one shoulder, missing the spot completely.
“Here, let me.” She took the dishcloth from him. But instead of wiping his face, she stood on her tiptoes and licked off the whipped cream.
Bryan’s pupil dilated. “Oh, Lucy.” His voice was hoarse with suppressed passion. They were standing near the stove, and Lucy reached over to the pan of chocolate sauce, dipped her finger in again, and wiped a little on his other cheek before sucking the end of her finger.
“You do get dirty when you cook, don’t you?” She again stretched up on tiptoe so she could dart her tongue out and lick off the chocolate.
“You are a very wicked girl.” He dipped a finger into the bowl of whipped cream and spread a smear across her lips. “Oh, dear, look, I’ve made another mess.”
Lucy reflexively licked at the whipped cream, but Bryan shook his head. “No, no, you’ve missed most of it.” He leaned down and claimed her lips with his.
The kiss started out light and teasing, but it didn’t stay that way. His mouth went hard, demanding, his breathing harsh and rapid, and Lucy drank it in, his passion elevating hers.
She hadn’t meant to come in here and seduce him. Not exactly, anyway, but clearly that was what she’d done. And this time they were not in a public place, there was no family nearby. They were in a deserted restaurant with just the heady scents of chocolate and orange surrounding them.
Bryan’s kisses moved from her mouth to her jaw and down her neck to her collarbone. He caressed her breast through the thin warmup. “You’re not wearing a bra.”
“I dressed in a hurry.” She pulled his hand against her breast again, hungry for the feel of him. She wanted his touch everywhere on her body.
He slid the zipper on her shirt down, following with a trail of kisses that ended between her breasts. Then he insinuated his hand inside the shirt and eased the fabric aside, bringing her breast out into the light.
He pushed her up against the Sub-Zero fridge and kissed her breast, first with reverence, then with an increasing hunger. As he suckled, flames of hot desire shot from her breast through her body to the very core of her, and the heat made her whimper with need.
He peeled off her shirt and then his, fumbling with the buttons in his haste, getting his hand caught in the cuff, tugging until buttons flew off. He pressed his bare chest against hers and groaned.
“Oh, yes.” The hair on his chest abraded her sensitive nipples, sending more of those white-hot flames licking through her, making her squirm.
“Lucy, we have to stop.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no, don’t do this to me.”
“We don’t have any birth control.”
“We don’t need it. I have the implant.”
“Seriously?”
She went to work on his linen suit pants. “I wouldn’t joke about something like that. Now, make love to me, Bryan Elliott, or that pot of chocolate sauce is going over your head.”
Seven
Bryan had always been a man who used his good judgment in all decisions, but he was beyond judgment now. Lucy Miller had just removed the last barrier to their making love. No unforeseen consequences could result from their intimacy.
He kissed her again, inhaling her. She smelled even better than the chocolate, which would have been a poor substitute for indulging in Lucy.
“I should take you up to bed,” he whispered.
“No. You’ll change your mind if I give you even half a chance.”
“Or you will.” He slid both hands inside the stretchy waist of her warmup pants. She wore only the briefest of thongs under them, which meant her cheeks were bare. He filled his hands with her rounded bottom while he continued kissing her, rubbing up against her small but perfect breasts. Her nipples were hard as glass beads against his chest, and they burned him like a brand.
She managed to get his pants unfastened and her own hands
were as busy as his. She thrust them inside his boxers, groaning as one hand found his arousal.
“Whoa, Lucy.” He had to distract her or he was going to go off like a defective bottle rocket. He couldn’t recall the last time he was this turned on, possibly never. But he felt as if the foreplay had been going on all evening. Every look she gave him, every innocent or not-so-innocent touch, had led to this.
He pulled her pants and thong down past her knees in one fluid movement. She gasped in surprise, but she was about to get an even bigger surprise. He leaned down, placed a shoulder against her waist, wrapped his arms around her thighs, and picked her up in a fireman’s carry.
She squealed in protest. “Bryan, what are you doing? Put me down.” She reached out and slapped at his rear, but it was hardly more than a tap.
He retaliated with a slightly smarter smack to her bare bottom. “Behave.”
“Ow!” She laughed. “What are you doing?”
He carried her only as far as the large counter where the chefs assembled the plates of food just before the wait staff whisked them out to their patrons. “You think you’re the only one who’s allowed to do something outrageous? You think you’re the only one who can seduce?”
“Oh, Bryan, I didn’t set out to seduce you. Not really.” She wrapped her hands around his head, pressing his face against her breasts, and he didn’t protest. He was in heaven.
“I was worried about you. You’d been gone so long. If you hadn’t had the whipped cream on your face, this never would have happened.”
“Well, it did, missy. You started it and I’m going to finish it.” He leaned against her, pushing her until she lay with her back on the counter. Then he stripped her pants and underwear all the way off her feet, pulling off her running shoes in the process. They dropped with a clunk to the floor, and he pulled her knees apart and stepped between her thighs.
She quivered with anticipation, and he had to admit it would have been easy just to drop his own pants and bury himself in her. He tested her readiness with one finger and felt that she was slick.
Dynasties:The Elliots, Books 7-12 Page 8