Finally, he exhaled and stared intently. “I think you might ruin me, Catherine,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or a curse. I still knelt between his legs, and he slid to the floor beside me and pulled me into his lap.
“Did you like it?” I asked.
“
Like
is an understatement,” he murmured, stroking my hair.
“Stay for dinner.” I didn’t want him to go yet. I didn’t want to lose the closeness we’d regained.
“Are you cooking?” I heard the amusement in his voice.
“No, Beckett is.”
He was silent for a moment. “Alright. I’ll get the wine.”
We dressed, and he left to get the wine while I cleaned up. Poor Laird needed a walk, but before I put his leash on, I texted Beckett.
William is joining us for dinner. Hope that’s okay.
Beckett texted me back a happy face. I’m sure he thought I was insane. One moment I cried about the man, and the next I’d invited him to dinner.
I took Laird for a quick walk, then showered, and brushed on makeup. This was a casual dinner, so I decided on grey wool trousers, a black tank top, and a sweater wrap. I wore my diamond studs, dried my hair, and walked into the living room when Beckett arrived, his arms full of shopping bags. William arrived shortly thereafter with the wine, and we opened it and chatted while Beckett cooked. He and William discussed acidulated water, charcuterie, and the Brix scale. At one point, as we were eating Beckett’s duck breasts and polenta—which were excellent—the conversation turned to barding. I asked if it had anything to do with Shakespeare and received two amused looks.
I listened after that. I didn’t mind being left out of the conversation. I liked hearing the two talk so amiably. The wine was excellent. It was William’s label, of course. As Beckett was getting ready to go, William offered to send him a case of his WML label—reds or whites, Beckett’s choice. That won Beckett over.
I walked Beckett out, and when I returned I could hear William speaking low. I peeked into the kitchen and saw he was on the phone. He saw me and held up a finger, waving it around to indicate he was wrapping up.
I wandered into the living room and turned on the TV. Wednesday was a good evening for TV, and I snuggled into the couch with Laird. A while later, William joined me. He seemed in no hurry to leave, so I figured he was staying the night. He was trying.
Sometime before the news, I dozed off and had a vague memory of William carrying me to bed and undressing me. Then he snuggled next to me, and I was out. I dreamed I was on the beach in California, the sand and the surf caressing me. They slid over my body with long strokes, cupping my breasts and teasing between my legs. I moaned, coming awake to the feel of William’s hands and mouth. He kissed me and slid over me, his warm body, heavy and solid. I was half asleep and unsure whether I was dreaming or awake. My body simply reacted, arching into his, opening for him as he touched and licked. I came with a sigh the first time. It was sweet and gentle, and then he was inside me, moving slowly. Our bodies moved together as if in a dream. Everything was tender and easy. We came together, and I snuggled back into him, closing my eyes.
“Catherine, I have to go.” He untangled himself and rose.
I was sated and sleepy, but I managed to murmur, “Will I see you later?”
It was dark, but I could hear him dressing.
“Not today. I’ll be in meetings all day.”
I burrowed under the covers. “I’ll come to your office…” I smiled. “I’ll wear a skirt.”
“Very tempting, but I’ll be in London.”
I sat and pushed the hair out of my eyes. “What?”
He had his shirt and trousers on, his jacket slung over an arm. “I’m heading to O’Hare now. The jet is waiting. Go back to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” And he was gone.
I heard the door open and close, and I lay down, trying to go back to sleep. My thoughts turned over and over. What kind of relationship was this? Just when I thought we were becoming close, he jets to London and doesn’t even tell me. I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to really know him.
Fourteen
Thursday I mulled over William’s need for secrecy and mystery while I caught up on business. As I answered emails from potential clients and followed up with Fresh Market, I wondered if William realized how evasive he was. Maybe he was so used to keeping to himself, he didn’t think of sharing the details of his life. Maybe he didn’t realize going to another country, crossing an ocean, was something that should be mentioned to one’s girlfriend. And maybe, he didn’t want a real girlfriend. That would mean allowing someone to get close, and I understood why, after the death of his family, he avoided close relationships.
My thoughts were going round and round, so I decided to work on my expense spreadsheet. Accounting always put me in a stupor, and today was no different. I could thank William that I’d be ready with my taxes in April.
Later, I went for a run by the lake, and the cold cleared my head. After a shower, I ordered Chinese and popped in a DVD. I picked at the food and watched the movie. It was a romantic comedy, and everything worked out too easily for the characters. No one’s husband had died. No one had a mysterious boyfriend who jetted to another continent without mentioning it. No one lived unhappily ever after watching lame movies and eating bad Chinese.
On Friday, I was finishing up interior shots of a commercial property for a brochure when I got a text from William.
Dinner. My place. Eight.
I tried to ignore how much it sounded like an order. He was coming home. He wanted to see me.
Sounds delicious.
It will be.
What should I wear?
I sent back, happy to see his teasing side I liked so much.
As little as possible.
That night I dressed in a simple black and beige wrap-dress and the red and black lingerie William had sent for our first date. The dress was easy to get out of and didn’t cling, so I could wear garters and stockings. I slipped on the Louboutin heels. They matched the underwear, and I could imagine William’s look if I stripped and stood in my heels and lingerie. And I thought it was fun to pair the expensive lingerie with my reasonably priced dress, which I’d gotten on sale after Thanksgiving.
I’d asked Allison to keep Laird overnight, figuring I wouldn’t be home until morning. She’d agreed and said her kids would love a dog to play with, so he could stay as long as I wanted. I thought about packing a toothbrush and other toiletries, but I didn’t want to presume. And besides, bringing some of my things over felt very relationship-y.
Anthony buzzed me at seven-thirty, but I wasn’t ready for another fifteen minutes. I put on my coat and my gloves—I was so proud I’d remembered—and headed down.
“Good evening, Miss Cat.”
“Miss Cat?” I said as I slid into the back of the SUV.
“A compromise.”
“I like it.” We pulled away from my condo, and I leaned forward. “Did William have a good trip to London?”
“I think so. I haven’t seen him.”
“You didn’t pick him up from the airport?”
“I couldn’t. His flight arrived about an hour and a half ago. He has another driver.”
I considered this. “So William is just getting home?”
“I believe he arrived about forty-five minutes ago, Miss Cat.”
I mentally lowered my expectations. William was probably exhausted. Maybe we’d order takeout and watch a movie.
But when I stepped into William’s penthouse, the scents of sautéing garlic teased my nose. My stomach rumbled, and I followed the smell into William’s kitchen. I’d seen his kitchen briefly when I’d stayed over. It had the signature William Lambourne style. Minimalist and stark, the appliances were stainless steel and top-notch. I’d been in enough kitchens to recognize designer names—Liebherr, Viking, Miele. The cabinets were sleek and white and the counters made of stone I couldn’t identify. There were no ceramic roosters on the counter, no magnets on the refrigerator, no signs that read
William’s Kitchen
, or plaques with cartoonish chefs riding bicycles. It could have been a display kitchen, except now I saw William in it, and I understood this place was his.
He looked over his shoulder when I walked in and smiled. He was wearing his suit, but he’d removed the jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His grey and black striped tie was loosened and flipped over his shoulder, the top button of his shirt undone. He’d been standing at the counter, chopping something, and he looked like he belonged. He’d looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. He was at home here.
“Hi,” I said with a smile.
“Hi.” He walked toward me and took me in his arms. His kiss was long and lingering and absolutely delicious.
“Mmm,” I said when we broke apart. “What’s for dinner?”
“Soon enough,” he promised. “I’ll take your coat.”
I turned so he could help me and looked around. “No staff tonight?”
“I wanted the place to myself. I wanted to cook for you.”
He indicated a leather stool at the counter where he was working on chopping tomatoes. I pulled myself onto the seat and crossed my legs, allowing the dress to fall open and show a little leg. Now that I saw him, I realized how much I’d missed him. “William, you must be exhausted. You don’t have to cook.”
“It relaxes me,” he said. “And I like to cook.”
“Then at least let me help you.”
He gave me a bemused look and slid a cutting board and several onions toward me. “Do you know how to chop onions?”
“Of course.”
He handed me a large knife, and I looked at the knife and then at the onions. “You just start chopping, right?”
He moved behind me and placed his hand over mine on the knife. He leaned down, his warm chest rubbing my back. “First trim the ends.” He guided my hand as I sliced off first one end of the yellow onion then the other. The fragrant smell filled the room and stung my eyes slightly. “Now, cut it lengthwise.” He propped the onion on a flat end, his hand warm and sure over mine as I cut it in half. “Take one half at a time and lay it flat. Slice crosswise through the onion.” His hand moved over mine, showing me the correct motions. I tried to concentrate, but I could feel his muscles under his shirt and smell his cologne. It felt so good to touch him again.
“Stack the sections and flip them sideways,” he was saying. His hand caressed mine as he positioned the sections. “That’s it.” His breath feathered my ear, and I gulped in air as though I was drowning. “Then cut downward, moving lengthwise toward your fingers. Be careful of your fingers.”
“I will.”
“Good.” He moved away, and I instantly wanted him back again. I ached to have him beside me, touching me again. “Keep going,” he said with a smile. He knew the effect he had on me.
I continued slicing, trying to concentrate on the task before me. Beside me, William moved confidently, sprinkling some of this, mixing that, slicing something else, opening and closing his oven door—not an AGA, I noted.
“How was your day?” he asked, not breaking stride.
“Fine. I had a shoot.” I had to look up from my slicing to answer. “I did the usual. How was London?”
“Busy.”
I peered at the pan he prepared to place in the oven. “Is that all you’re going to say? Busy?”
He shrugged, opening the oven door again and popping the pan in. “It was business. I don’t think it would interest you.”
“Everything about you interests me, William.”
He smiled, and the warmth in his look made me flush.
“What are we having for dinner?”
“I thought we’d start with oysters.”
I made a face. “Yuck. I’ll skip that one.”
“I don’t think so. Have you had them before?”
“I grew up next to the ocean. Of course, I’ve had them before. They’re slimy. Not my favorite.”
He laughed. “That’s because you tasted with your eyes. Not your mouth.” He trailed his hand over my eyes and down to my lips. I bit his finger playfully.
“I’m pretty sure I tasted them with my mouth.”
“Let’s do an experiment. Close your eyes.”
“Okay.” I closed them.
“Now, open your mouth.”
I opened my mouth, and my eyes as well.
He frowned. “Open only your mouth.”
“What are you going to feed me?”
“Trust me, Catherine. Close your eyes.”
I sighed and closed my eyes again. I could hear him moving, hear the hiss of the pan on the stove, the sound of the refrigerator as it kicked on. I jumped when William’s warm finger skated over my lips. “Open,” he murmured.
I obeyed.
“Open more.”
I felt something hard and cold touch my lips. I touched my tongue to the edge and realized it was a large spoon. It was chilled, and my lips tingled and burned as the cold touched them. Then William tipped the spoon, and it was like the ocean exploded in my mouth. It was smooth and creamy, and a dash of heat and spice caressed my tongue. It was a chilled mousse, but it wasn’t sweet. And it was vaguely familiar. “Can I open my eyes?”
“Yes.”
He was looking at me, one brow cocked. “That was our
amuse-bouche
.”
“That’s foodie for first course,” I translated. “Really good. I’d eat it for the second course too.”
He grinned. “Close enough. What was it?”
“I don’t know. Something I’ve eaten before. Some sort of mousse, but it had a kick.”
“That was the cayenne pepper. Any other ingredients you could identify?”
“Maybe cream?”
William crossed to the refrigerator and brought out two small plates, each with a pale pink mousse. “Salmon mousse made with fresh Scottish salmon. I brought the fish back on the jet,” he said.
“Salmon? Really? I’m surprised. And you brought fish on your jet?” Just saying it made me laugh.
“One of the many perks of having my own plane, Catherine.” William’s eyes twinkled. “But let’s not lose focus. This proves my point. You eat too much with your eyes. I can fix that.” He looked around then grabbed the knot of his silver and grey striped tie and loosened it, pulling it off. He walked toward me, and I smiled. I had a feeling I knew what he had in mind. He wrapped the tie around my eyes and knotted it in place at the back of my head. “Can you see?” he asked.
I moved my head from left to right. The world was grey. “No.”
“Good. Don’t move. You don’t want to fall off the bar stool.”
“Okay.” I sat still, listening to the sounds of him preparing something. “Now what are you making?”
“Listen, smell, taste.” Something warm but hard touched my lips. It wasn’t a spoon this time, but something uneven and ridged. “Open your mouth,” William said, his low voice close and tantalizing. “Take this in, savor the taste, then swallow. No chewing.”
I tensed. “William.”
“Trust me.”
I opened my mouth and something warm and salty glided over my tongue. It was more sweet than savory but quite frothy and laced with a zing. I swallowed the small morsel of meat and opened my mouth again.
“You liked that, did you?” William asked.
“It was different.”
He chuckled. “I doubt Warm Oysters with Champagne Sabayon has ever received so menial a compliment as
different
.”
“I can’t believe that was an oyster. It was delicious.”
“Now try this.” I felt something cold and firm against my lips. He tapped the food lightly against my upper lip, holding it below my nose for a moment so that I could smell it. It smelled a little tangy. I heard the slice of a knife, and he said, “Stick out your tongue.”
I did and he touched the…was it a fruit? A vegetable? I was uncertain, but he tapped it against my tongue lightly, then he rolled it over the tip and slid it inside my mouth. “Cherry tomato,” I said. “Very good.”
“And this?”
I stuck out my tongue again and felt something cold and hard caress it. The texture was ridged, and I couldn’t taste anything definitive. He rolled the edge over my lips, tracing them, then skated down my chin and my neck, to the V in my wrap-dress. I showed a bit of cleavage, and apparently, that fact hadn’t escaped William’s notice. My skin broke out in gooseflesh as the coolness of the food skated over it, followed by the warm caress of William’s fingers.
“Open, but do not bite,” he said.
I opened my mouth, and something cylindrical slid inside. It was warm from my skin, and I thought it might be a carrot or a zucchini stick. William slid it out then gently pushed it in.
When he pulled it out again, I said, “We could try this with something other than zucchini.”
“Tempting.” He slid the zucchini into my mouth again. “Now bite.”
I did, and it wasn’t zucchini at all. “Squash?” I asked. “No, wait. Carrot.”
“You’re getting good at this.”
I felt his warm hand on my knee as he lifted it, uncrossing my legs. My breath hitched as I strained to sense what he was doing. He spread my legs and stepped between them. I felt the material of my dress slide up my thighs. He groaned softly. “You’re wearing the garters. Do you know what that does to me?”
“Probably the same as having your hands on my thighs does to me.”
He ran his palms along my stockings. “I am going to fuck you so hard later.”
“Why not now?”
“Patience.” His hands slid up again, parting my dress farther, until my panties were exposed. “Nice,” he murmured. “I pictured you in this when I bought it, but you look even better.”
My sex ached at his warmth, and I felt my own skin heat in response. I wanted to slide closer. His hands lifted, and I prayed he would touch me again.
“This will be a little cold, but I think it necessary to cleanse the palate.”
I nodded, unable to speak. Suddenly, something icy trailed up my bare leg. I jumped slightly from surprise, but the contrast between my flushed skin and the ice caused my body to come alive. My core throbbed as the ice slid closer and closer to my hips. Drips of water slid down my stockings, and as he moved closer to my sex, down my bare skin, tickling and tantalizing. I shifted, my body eager for release—eager for his touch.
Then the sensation was gone, and I sat forward. I heard a rustling, and I listened intently. Was he undressing?
Please, God, yes.
But another sliver of ice skated down my collarbone and rested for a moment. I felt a drop of cold water slide into my cleavage. William drew in a long breath then slid the ice past my lips. It was refreshing, and I rolled it in my mouth, sucking until it melted.