by Amy Garvey
Rhys was standing so close to her, she could feel the heat coming off him, sense the solidity of his body. Every nerve ending in her own body had gone on alert, and when he eased closer, she melted, just a little bit, backing into the counter to hold herself up.
“I can teach you how to cook the chicken now, if you like,” he said softly. “We don’t want this feast to go to waste, now do we?”
She shook her head, and watched as he slit a package of chicken breasts and placed them on a heated grill pan that looked as if it was coated with some kind of oil. The meat sizzled as he seasoned them, and she jumped at the unexpected noise.
“Nothing to worry about, love,” Rhys murmured, and slid his hand up her back. “They like the heat, because it holds in the juices. We don’t want to rush them, because we want them done, but still moist in the end. Still a bit tender, yeah? So it’s just right on the tongue.”
She couldn’t help it—a shudder of pure need rippled through her. She was pretty sure he wasn’t really talking about chicken.
Swallowing hard, she looked up at him. Those gray eyes were shadowed beneath the hair falling over his forehead, but she could see the desire in them, a steady flame.
“How do you know when they’re done?” she asked in a voice that was nowhere near as steady.
“You have to turn them first,” he answered, showing her. “You want both sides to get equal time, yeah? Equal exposure to the heat.”
Heat. Oh dear. It was hot in here, that was for sure. She took another shuddering breath as he inched even closer, his hip brushing against her. Oh yeah, it was hot.
“The risotto’s all done,” he explained, staring into her eyes as if what he was saying was incredibly private and important. “It simmers for a long time, you see, slowly building up heat, steaming, until it’s creamy and soft and plump.”
Oh my.
“And the glaze here, well, that’s the sweet, yeah?” He dipped another spoon in the saucepan and held it up. “All the juices and the sugar running together in the heat, and just melting on your tongue…”
“It sounds…delicious,” she managed, unable to tear her eyes away from his. And felt her heart stutter in surprise—or was that inevitability?—when he leaned in.
“I wager you taste even better.”
And then he was kissing her, his mouth hot against her, a firm pressure that went on and on, until her lips parted and she tasted his tongue, as dark and wicked as he was, and just as tempting. The spoon he’d been holding clattered to the counter as he pulled her against his chest, and she let her arms snake around him, holding on for dear life.
She’d never been kissed so well before in her life. So deeply, so long, so relentlessly sensually as his mouth explored hers and his hands glided up her back and into her hair. The heat between them was dizzying.
And total, she realized, as she felt her bones begin to melt into the sensation, every part of her softening, giving, sliding against him. Another minute and she would be nothing but a puddle.
But Rhys held her up, his hands on her hips now, positioning her against him more firmly. And still he kissed her, on and on, until she was breathless and so full of need, she was one continuous tingle, a spark just waiting to burst into flame.
She was vaguely aware of the bright overhead lights, and the cold metal of the counter against the small of her back, of the gentle sizzle of the chicken in the pan, but none of it mattered. What mattered was Rhys, hot and hard and demanding against her, his hands and his mouth moving over her like a ribbon, binding her to him, tying her up in one big knot of…
“Shit!”
She stumbled when Rhys wrenched away from her, and realized the chicken in the pan was far past simmering and had caught flame. Smoke poured off the pan in a cloudy gray haze, bitter in the air, and then the smoke alarm went off.
God, the noise was horrible. Like an agonized robot wailing for its mother. She glanced around for a broom or something else to jab at it while Rhys put out the flames. She didn’t even care about dinner—she wanted to go back to the kissing. If she could just get the damn alarm to shut up…
Or get the sprinklers to turn off, she realized a moment later. Rhys glanced up at the sudden shower, his face white, and sputtered, “The tart!” Flapping a sodden dishtowel over the smoking pan, he added, “Sod that, the wine!”
She grabbed the bottle and stuffed the wet cork inside, or tried to, but the heavy glass was slippery, and a moment later it slid out of her hands onto the floor, where it crashed with a spectacular spray.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Rhys moaned.
She couldn’t help it—they were both soaked, the kitchen was slick with spray, and the tart Rhys had made for dessert was going to float off its plate any second. Rhys had planned a romantic meal, all for her, and they’d somehow ended up in a Three Stooges movie.
So she laughed. There was no stopping it—it bubbled up from inside with such force, it nearly exploded from her throat.
And after a moment of what Olivia could only call shock and horror, Rhys broke down, too, until they were both helpless with it, sliding toward each other on the slippery floor and blinking water out of their eyes.
“Not what I…planned,” Rhys gasped, brushing away the hair plastered to his forehead.
“I hope not!” Olivia answered with a giggle, and then turned at the sound of a new voice behind her.
“What on earth…?” Hector asked, his mouth hanging open. He was one of the night maintenance staff, a sweet Puerto Rican man in his late fifties. Hesitating in the doorway to the kitchen, he regarded the busy sprinklers and the shrieking alarm with amazement.
“Little cooking accident,” Rhys said, and bit back a grin.
“No one was hurt,” Olivia added, squeezing water out of the hem of her sweater. “Well, except the chicken.”
Rhys doubled over at that, and Hector’s brow rose even higher.
“You two go on now,” he said cautiously, clearly not sure if they were completely sane at the moment. “I turn it off and clean up. You go put on dry clothes, Miss Olivia. And…and you, sir.”
“Thank you, Hector,” Olivia said, trying to look dignified as she made her way across the slick floor, blinking droplets of water out of her eyes. “I’ll take you up on that.”
Rhys hesitated, surveying the mess, but Hector shooed him toward the door. Olivia held out her hand, and after a moment Rhys took it.
“Where are we going?”
“My place,” she whispered, drawing him closer as they walked to the service elevator. “Just like you planned.”
“I need some dry clothes,” Rhys reminded her, but she hushed him with a pointed stare and reached up on tiptoe to kiss him just as the elevator bell dinged.
“Not for what I have planned.”
Chapter 7
I f Olivia had ever said anything so blatantly suggestive before, she couldn’t remember it. But there was no way she was going to let the sprinkler system put a damper on the heat she and Rhys had created in the kitchen.
A damper. Huh. She giggled as the elevator lurched upward, and Rhys leaned in to nuzzle her cheek.
“What’s so funny, love?”
She colored, even though she was soaked to the skin and beginning to shiver. “Nothing. We’re, um, dripping.”
“I’ll mop it up later,” Rhys promised, and pushed her back against the wall, his arms braced on either side of her, and his wet lips surprisingly warm.
Oh, there it was again. That incredible heat, as if he’d lit a fire inside her that had only been banked for a moment. She’d never felt anything like it—and she was willing to bet the moment he touched her again, really touched her, the blaze was going to be magnificent. She shivered just thinking about it, and Rhys pulled her closer, until they were chest to chest. Amazing that they weren’t giving off steam, she thought as his fingers combed through her wet hair and his tongue delved into her mouth, stroking hers.
The bell for her floor pinged, and Rhy
s pulled himself away from her just as the doors slid open. “Lead the way, love.”
Lead the way. She was doing just that, wasn’t she? The unfortunate chicken fire and the surprise shower would have been a perfect opportunity to back away from Rhys, slow down, consider the wisdom of getting involved with a guest, but no. No way. Whatever this was between them, she wanted more of it. And if it did turn out to be some crazy dream, well, at least she would have enjoyed it, right?
Her hands shook, just a little bit, as she turned the key in the lock, and Rhys’s steadying hand on her back only made her more nervous. She wanted this, yes, but now that they were here—almost inside, okay, inside now, he was shutting the door behind them, oh dear—it was impossible not to realize they were going to be naked together in a few minutes. That Rhys would see her naked.
She blinked, considering. That was what was going to happen, wasn’t it?
“Now I’m dripping on your rug, love,” Rhys pointed out as she hesitated in the small space that served as the foyer, so she led the way into the kitchen after kicking off her shoes. The bathroom was too small, too intimate, at least for now. Not that the kitchen was much bigger. It was sort of an ambitious closet.
And as they stood on the faded linoleum, it was suddenly much too quiet. The old-fashioned alarm clock on her bedside table across the room ticked in the silence, drawing attention to the bed. Which was right there, practically in the middle of the room, the comforter still rumpled. Waiting for them.
Oh dear.
“You’re soaked through.” Rhys stripped off the shirt he was wearing and shook his wet head over the sink. “You’re going to catch your death, as mums everywhere say.”
“I think I’ll live,” Olivia said, and then realized how ridiculous that sounded. She had to take off her wet clothes at some point. That was why they were up here, after all.
But it was very hard to concentrate with Rhys bare-chested, not more than a foot away, his wet skin still glistening.
“You may,” he agreed, “but I’d feel better if you got out of those wet things.” He leaned over to skim his lips over her damp cheek. “For a lot of reasons.”
She shivered again, and this time she knew full well her wet skin had nothing to do with it.
But she couldn’t help stalling, at least for another minute. “I’m sorry your lovely dinner was ruined.”
“I’m not,” he murmured, stepping closer and tugging up the hem of her sweater. She let him, raising her arms so he could pull it over head. Oh, hell, she was wearing her oldest bra.
“But you went to all that trouble,” she protested, resisting the urge to fold her arms over the plain white cotton.
“No trouble at all.” Rhys kissed the side of her face, then her neck and her throat, skimming his hands down her sides to the waistband of her jeans. “I’ll make you another one tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” God, why was she still talking?
To distract yourself from the fact that he’s peeling off your jeans, a voice in her head whispered with what sounded very much like a naughty smirk.
And he was—she lifted her legs when he nudged her, stepping out of the soaked denim and watching it fall to the floor.
Oh boy.
“Towels?” Rhys murmured, and disappeared into the bathroom, which was just across the tiny hall. Along the way, he shucked off his boots, then returned to dry her wet head.
“I can do that,” she said, but he leaned down to look her in the eye with a wicked smile.
“It’s more fun if I do it, yeah?”
Oh yeah. He was toweling off her back now, his hands amazingly firm through the thick terrycloth, then her shoulders and her chest…
“I think this better go,” he whispered, and distracted her with another kiss as he unhooked her bra. “It’s soaked through, as well.”
“So are your jeans,” she said when she found the willpower to drag her mouth away from his.
The gleam in his eyes was strangely satisfying. She drew in a shuddering breath as he stood back and peeled them off, leaving them in a wet heap next to hers. He was clad only in black boxer briefs that revealed the lean hardness of his hips and thighs now, and she bit back a whimper of excitement.
This was no dream. Rhys, out of nowhere, completely unexpected, was quite real, and right here in front of her, in her own little apartment, his damp, bare skin warm and his eyes burning into hers with desire.
He held out his hand, and she took it without thinking twice. When he hauled her against him, devouring her mouth in a hungry kiss, she held on tight, kissing him back, riding the wave of arousal in her belly, rippling down her thighs and deep in her core.
“I think we’ll be more comfortable over there, yeah?” Rhys murmured, and hauled her up further, carrying her over to the bed.
“That’s what it’s for,” she managed, flat on her back and staring up at him. He was so strangely beautiful, with that sharp jawline and those gray eyes, his hair falling in careless waves around his ears.
So beautiful…and probably so experienced. God, what was she doing with a man like him? What was he expecting?
And how on earth was she supposed to figure it out when he was lowering his mouth to her breasts, licking the nipples with teasing swipes of his tongue? She groaned and wriggled closer, clutching at his lean hips.
“Ah, yes, the bed was a proper choice,” he murmured, pausing to glance up at her with another wicked grin. “All the better to eat you with.”
Oh God.
His hands were busy, too, smoothing over her hips and down her thighs as he knelt above her. All she could do was run her hands over his chest and down his arms, corded with muscle. He was so hard everywhere, so warm, so alive—and just as talented with his mouth as he was with his hands. He was kissing her rib cage now, running his tongue along each curved bone as if he were tasting her.
Who would have guessed that it would feel so deliciously good?
But surely she should be doing something, too—something more than groaning with pleasure, at least. She wriggled just out of reach and waited until he looked up at her to speak.
“I can take my…panties off,” she whispered, cursing the breathless hitch in her voice. “If you want to, you know…”
He shook his head with a fond scowl. “We’re not even close, love. Remember what I said about slow cooking? We’ve got to warm you up right and proper.” To prove it, he reached down and took a rigid nipple between his lips, licking it slowly before sucking it into his mouth.
Oh God. Oh, that was… She couldn’t form words, and he hadn’t even taken off her panties yet.
Still, it was worth another try. She didn’t want to be selfish, even though nothing sounded better than lying back and letting him have his way with her for a few more hours. She had a feeling his “way” would probably be fabulous.
But she propped herself up on her elbows and nudged at him until he met her lips with his. “I don’t want to be selfish…” she murmured against his mouth, which was so hot, so dark and rich with the taste of him. “I want to please you, too, you know…”
“Oh, you are, love,” he assured her. “You are. This is about me, too, because nothing is more arousing than pleasing you.” He kissed her firmly, then urged her onto her back. “Watching you melt. Feeling you heat up and shudder, and hearing you groan. Trust me.”
There was no arguing with that, she decided, giving in and lying back against the pillow as he slid her panties off. The scrap of faded white cotton hit the floor somewhere beside the bed, but she didn’t look up to see where—Rhys had parted her thighs gently, and his fingers were stroking through the wiry nest of curls between them.
“You’re so lovely,” he whispered, leaving a trail of light kisses down the smooth expanse of her belly, then lower. “So soft and lush and perfect.” He kissed the curls, blowing into them teasingly, as one finger slid between the folds, stroking her.
She wasn’t going to survive this. She
was sure of it. It was too good, too overwhelming, too much …
His finger skimmed against her clitoris then, and she came without warning, an explosive ripple of sensation that made her cry out in surprise.
“Oh, love,” Rhys whispered, cupping her gently as the ripples subsided, “that was bloody brilliant. And a bit of a surprise, yeah? We’ll build the next one a bit slower, I think.”
The next one? She opened her eyes and found him already bent to his work again, sliding his finger deep inside her, stroking the far wall in a slow, steady rhythm that made her groan all over again.
“Rhys, please…” she began, clutching at the comforter with both hands curled into fists. She didn’t even know what she was asking for, but the words were out before she even knew she had opened her mouth.
“Patience, love,” he murmured, and slid up beside her, one finger still buried deep, to take her nipple in his mouth again. “Slowly now. Make it last, yeah? Your body, your pleasure. I want you to have as much of it as you can take.”
Oh…
Everything had receded. The room, the light on in the kitchen, the ticking clock, the feel of the wrinkled comforter beneath her. Nothing existed but her body, alive with sensation, and Rhys’s hands and mouth and tongue, building the flame up again, stoking it with every caress, every slow, licking kiss, every…
Oh God, he was moving again. Sliding down the mattress to position himself between her legs, spreading her thighs even further, his chest hot and hard against her skin, his finger still moving inside her and his mouth joining it now, licking through the lush, wet folds to the sensitive flesh inside.
No one had ever done that before. Not to her, at least. It was so revealing, him tasting her there, his tongue lapping her up like some kind of delicious treat, but she found she didn’t care. Who would? Who could? It felt so good, so very, very good, his tongue so wet and hot against her, the core of her slippery with desire and vibrating with pleasure…