Tempt Me (6 page)

Chadden called her Tidbit.

His jaw clenched tight. The fact that Chadden had a pet name for her suggested an intimacy in their relationship that he hadn’t established—yet. He had to admit the nickname suited her. Tidbit. A tiny, delicious bite.

Perfect.

Rafe glanced at Bailey’s delicate neck, swaddled in dusty blue Polar fleece. Had the vampire dared to feed from her? His knuckles whitened around the big metal spoon. Just how far had this little human been drawn into their world? Which acts had she already consented to?

“What should I use to cut this bread?”

Releasing his death grip on the spoon, he walked across the kitchen, where an assortment of knives clung to a magnetic strip mounted on the south wall. Selecting a serrated knife, he returned to the butcher block table, their hips brushing in the tight space. Her energy hadn’t changed much reading Chadden’s note—a roll of the eyes, a bump of amusement—but it changed now. Her hand trembled slightly as she accepted the knife. The softest sigh. Her breaths, shallow and fast. She stared at his hands like she was imagining how they’d feel stroking her bare skin.

Desire—for him.

He slowly inhaled, her succulent essence twining around his lower spine and pelvis. His cock sat up and begged.
Step away. Think.
“I’ll go put this on the fire,” he said, picking up the pot and carrying it to the fireplace.

He felt the weight of her stare as he knelt on the hearth and suspended the heavy cast-iron pot over the low, licking flames. After a pause, she made short work of the crusty French loaf, slicing with almost violent strokes of the knife.

Rafe’s eyes drifted shut. All that sexual energy, sublimated. What a waste. Maybe they could—
no
. He rose from the hearth and joined her in the kitchen again. “It’s probably best that we don’t let Chadden know we heated his food over a lowly fireplace.”

“It will be our little secret.”

Her voice was annoyed and aroused—one of his favorite combinations.

“Is there a basket I could put these in?”

He reached to the top shelf, grabbing one of the wicker baskets nesting there. “Here.”

While Bailey lined the basket with a paper napkin and transferred the bread, he quartered oranges and arranged them on a plate. Bailey’s gaze followed his movements as he added several chunks of dark chocolate, broken off from a wrapped bar of Godiva he’d found. 

“You have keyboard hands—piano, not laptop,” she mused. “Do you play?”

Did she remember how much pleasure he could wring from her body using nothing but his fingertips? “Sorry, no musical talent at all.”

“Too bad. You have a hell of a span, but I imagine it comes in handy when you’re sculpting.” She snitched a sliver of chocolate, slid it between her lips, and closed her eyes in ecstasy as it melted on her tongue.

Rafe stared, all blood detouring south.

“While we’re waiting for the pasta to heat up, will you show me what you’re working on?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Can I see what’s under the shroud? I’ve wanted to sneak a peek for hours. I can smell the clay, you know. Loamy, earthy.” She walked over to the dining room table where his sculpture lay, plucking at the plastic. “Come on, show me.”

“You might regret you asked.”

“It can’t be that bad, Rafe.” She indicated the chest-high abstract bronze displayed next to the fireplace. “Even a noob like me can see how talented you are.”

Walking slowly, he joined her at the table. “It’s...a work in progress.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “My expectations are firmly in the basement. You hereby have permission to suck.”

“Thank you,” he said wryly. “I can’t tell you how much that reassures me.”

“Oh, stop with the arrogance already. Critics genuflect before your work, blah blah blah, and I’m sure this piece”—she nudged the plastic—”will be no different.”

His stomach felt weighted down, like he’d swallowed rocks. The issue of whether she’d recognize herself as the model was suddenly secondary. Could he stand by while critics and art patrons studied her nude body with appreciative eyes, all the while covertly glancing at every woman in the gallery, trying to figure out who the model was? Or take bets on how often he’d interrupted his work so he could fuck her?

Screw his artistic breakthrough; his gallery show was toast.

He frantically considered his alternatives. Lorin had offered to model for him back when they’d been sleeping together; maybe she’d...Nah. Lorin had a bondmate now. Mild-mannered Gabe Lupinsky would tear off his head and piss down his throat if he suspected that the words ‘Lorin’ and ‘nude’ still had even a glancing proximity in his thoughts. Not that the idea would work anyway. For some inexplicable reason, Lorin’s warrior princess frame hadn’t engaged his muse.

He gazed down at the top of Bailey’s bright blonde head. Nope, it had been a pocket-sized human—a preacher’s kid—who’d managed that particular feat.

“Rafe? Come on. Let me see.” Peeling back the plastic herself, she tugged at the damp fabric swaddling the clay.

“Be careful with that! Jeez.” He carefully peeled back the cloth, exposing her figure inch by inch, until she was completely bare. He looked at Bailey. Suddenly her opinion was more important than that of the most well-respected art critic.

She stepped back and perused. Moved closer again. “It’s...beautiful, Rafe. Delicate, subtle. She looks...pleased. Sated.” She tipped her head to the side, hesitantly extending her hand to the nude. “How do you do that? How can you express emotions in clay?”

He glared at her. “How can you be so goddamn oblivious?”

She froze, deer in the headlights, almost touching the nude’s barely-there breasts. Glanced down at her own, camouflaged by fleece.

Her seesaw emotions nearly gave him whiplash.
Suspicion. Denial. Wonder. Delight. More denial.

Jesus, she slayed him.

He took a step closer to her, got in her personal space. She swallowed with an audible click. When she finally looked at him, a dawning awareness was shoving the confusion out of the way. “Why did you—”

“Sculpt you? How could I not?” He didn’t tell her how long it had taken for his subconscious to give him permission to do so. “I just wish my skill did you justice.”

“I...don’t look like”—she gestured to the sculpture with an embarrassed wave—”that.”

He took half a step closer, until they were standing so close that the air between them vibrated. “Like what? Satisfied? Gorgeous? Yeah, you do.”

Though a hot blush stained her cheeks, her eyes went heavy and hungry. The little witch edged closer to him, so close that the fabric of their shirts brushed together. She lifted her tiny hand, rested it against his hipbone with a feather-light touch.

Rafe caught his breath. Maybe she remembered more about that night than he’d thought. The vision of his hands holding her hips in place to receive his thrusts, and hers caressing his in return, was burned into his memory for all time. He inhaled deeply, and the seething, roiling sexual hunger, combined with the scent of her spicy, humid need, nearly clubbed him to his knees.

He eyed the waistband of the navy blue yoga pants that clung so faithfully to her curves. One downward yank and he could taste her again. She’d be slick and wet, and he’d take them both to heaven using nothing but his tongue. With a groan, he tried to reach for what remained of his tattered control. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want.”

Her naughty whisper drove a stake into the heart of whatever restraint he had left. Before he could react, she reached up with both hands, threaded her fingers into his hair, and tugged his head down, bringing their lips together.

He simply...gorged. She tasted of wonder, and sinful dark chocolate, and he dove in, licking up every bit. It didn’t matter that he had to be pumping pheromones like a wildcat oil rig, or that she had to be as influenced by them today as she’d been the night they were together. Her tongue tangled and dueled with his, parrying and thrusting, like she was as starved for him as he was for her.

Her hands clutched his ass, yanking their hips together. She dragged her mouth away from his, just enough distance to talk. “Can we dispense with the no touching rule?”

Each puff of her chocolate-scented breath bathed his face in sweet heat, and he couldn’t resist taking another taste. Licking at the corner of her mouth with his tongue, he nipped her upper lip.

Her gasp of delight glittered into him. When she bit back, he couldn’t hold back a groan. His cock pulsed, like she’d nibbled him there instead of on his mouth.

“You haven’t”— another flick of her agile tongue—”answered my question.” Her eyes snapped with frank, unabashed need. With demand.

Damned if his little PK wasn’t giving as good as she got. He felt like he’d crawled on hands and knees for miles, finding a miracle desert oasis just before he died of thirst. He could drink from her for days.

He tried to rein in his unruly hunger. Despite her confident touch, the original reason he’d wanted to follow the no touch rule remained firmly in place. He really wanted—no,
needed
—this to be more than physical, and because of his very physiology, he might not ever have that reassurance. Her clever hands tunneled under his T-shirt, stroking his stomach, and ecstasy flooded his system.

Her touch made him feel...worshipped somehow. Did Lukas feel this way when he was with Scarlett? Was this what—

“Rafe, stop thinking so much,” she whispered. “I want this. I want you.” She pulled their lips apart long enough to lift her jacket over her head and throw it somewhere.

As he admired the girly purple camisole she’d revealed, the great room lights flickered, then stayed on. His subconscious registered the light, the subtle hum of electronics waking up from a day and a half of sleep. Over in the entertainment center, the vintage VCR spit out a tape with a click. But he was a lot more interested in how the lacy camisole clung to her perfect cupcake breasts.

As he cupped them his hands, he couldn’t help but glance at his sculpture. Yes, he’d captured their shape and dimensions perfectly. And now he could touch. Taste.

He’d use every skill in his arsenal to bring her more pleasure than she’d ever known. Make her forget any lover but him. “Bailey—”

The cabin’s landline phone rang. They stared at each other, breathing hard.

Four, five, six obnoxious rings. He closed his eyes and dropped his hands.

“When did the electricity come back on?” Bailey murmured, blinking, as the answering machine invited the caller to leave a message after the tone.

“Rafe?” Lukas’s disembodied voice. “If I’m getting the answering machine, the electricity’s back on. Pick up.”

What was that smell? “Shit, the pasta.” Their Michelin-star brunch was burning in the cast-iron pan.

Bailey nudged him toward the phone. “He’s your brother.
You
talk to him. I’ll rescue the pasta.”

Half his weight, and she’d thrown him under the bus without a qualm. “Be careful of your hands. Hot pads are on the hearth.” As she passed, he snagged her around her waist, pulling her against him for a soul-sucking, lip-clinging kiss.

“Damn it, Rafe—” Lukas did not sound pleased.

“Grumpy,” Bailey murmured against his lips.

“Rafe, damn it...”

“Okay, okay.” He took a big step backwards, out of range of those dangerous hands of hers. After making sure she slipped on the walleye-shaped hot pads, he snatched up the blocky portable handset from the end table next to the couch. Antonia frequently said that the cabin was the place where old Sebastiani family electronics came to die. “Hey.” He deactivated the answering machine with a punch of a button. “What’s up?”

“What the fuck, Rafe. Nice of you let us know you’re okay.”

Bailey was right, Lukas
was
grumpy. “Cut us some slack; we were busy. The electricity literally came on a minute ago.”

Lukas didn’t respond. He probably knew exactly what they’d been busy with.

“Didn’t I tell you not to worry if you didn’t hear from us for a couple of days?” He’d called Lukas as soon as he’d gotten Bailey settled the night they’d fallen, letting him know she was with him up at the cabin, that she’d injured her wrist, they’d lost electricity, and that he was turning off their cell phones to preserve battery power. Lukas had agreed to pass the word to the rest of the family. The silence grew, and Rafe stubbornly let it. His brother’s ability to assess emotional energy signatures long distance was unrivaled, but damned if he was going to fill in the blanks. He and Bailey were adults, and didn’t have to answer to anybody but each other.

Lukas sighed. Apparently he was in no mood for a game of Chicken. “Can Bailey hear us?”

Rafe glanced over to the fireplace. Bailey knelt on the hearth, looking bemusedly at the whimsical hot pads protecting her hands. She opened and closed the fishes’ mouths several times before carefully lifting the heavy cast-iron pot off the hook. Subtle muscles shifted and flexed as she transferred it to the rock hearth.

“Rafe, can Bailey hear us?”

Rafe fought his eyes away from her ass so he could focus. “No.”

“How’s her wrist? Did you manage to keep her away from her laptop?”

“The wrist is sprained, and no.”

“So much for downtime,” Lukas grumbled.

“The swelling’s down; we’ve been icing.”

“And her stomach? Has she been rubbing it, scrubbing it with her knuckles? Popped any antacids?”

“What? No, not that I’ve seen.” He glanced at her again. The hot pads now off, she gave the pot a stir with the wooden spoon, then lifted it to her mouth, licking at the Béchamel sauce with tiny laps of her tongue
.

Jesus
.

Where were his scruples? Because somewhere along the way, he’d decided to do this, scruples be damned. She was an adult, an interesting, alluring woman who knew her own mind, and she seemed to want him as much as he wanted her—impossible, but a man could dream. To take her at anything less than her word would be insulting. 

She might be small, but she was definitely no infant. And something about her touch, her carnally innocent kiss, made desire feel shiny and new, something they’d discover together.