But surveying Liv’s voluptuous, sprawled pose, her skin flushed rosy pink from some screaming-ass sex with
him
, he reconsidered, or maybe his libido did. “You don’t have to leave just yet, do you?” he heard himself ask, the voice obviously his, although the remark was so shocking, he looked around hoping someone else might have spoken.
“I’ll stay for a while.” Her gaze shifted to his rising erection. “Let me know when he gets tired or you do. Since I seem to be megahorny tonight”—she made a little grimace—“I’m not capable of sound decision making.”
“Maybe it’s this bed.” Jake gestured at one of the florid nude bedposts. “I’m pretty much in overdrive myself. Although, I did promise you dinner, so”—he shrugged—“it’s your call.”
“Right now I’m thinking ten more orgasms, not dinner.”
He grinned. “Only ten?”
“I didn’t mean to sound so greedy. Whatever you want, of course. You decide.”
“The way I’m feeling, I figure we’ll fuck till I collapse.”
“No wonder all the ladies like you.”
He probably shouldn’t say that all the other ladies never made him feel like he’d taken a fistful of X when he hadn’t. “Uh-uh, it’s you, babe.” No sense in playing games, he thought for the first time in his life.
It was an evening of revelations.
Or with luck, it would be.
He had plans.
Not that Liv didn’t have a few of her own, her feelings as outre as Jake’s.
Seven
But Jake played the gentleman first.
“Let me find some towels,” he said.
“From the looks of this brothel bed,” Liv murmured, stretching lazily, “I’d say look in the bedside table.”
It took him a moment for his brain to assimilate what she’d said, because he was busy thinking she looked like some lush Titian nude when she arched her back like that. Or was it Rubens? Not that it mattered when her boobs were lifted into perfect cushiony roundness like that. And they were real—a novelty for ones that big. Dragging himself back to earth, he said, “You’re probably right. This place screams Mustang Ranch.”
“Have you been there?”
“Uh-uh.” Leaning over, he opened the door on the bedside table. “I know people who have. It seems a waste of time to me. There you go, babe,” he added, grabbing two towels, sitting up, and handing her one. “You called that one right.”
“Chaz isn’t a romantic.”
“No shit. He has a complete drugstore in there. Mouthwash, Altoids, a gross of condoms, and whadda you know— gold-plated handcuffs.” Reaching down, he pulled them out and swung them in her direction.
“If you don’t behave, I might have to use them.”
He gave her a look. “Over my dead body.”
“So you’re not into bondage.”
“Not much.”
“Ever?”
“Is this a quiz?”
She opened her arms wide and smiled. “I’m done. No more questions. You may direct the entertainment.”
His brows rose. “I wouldn’t have typecast you as submissive. ”
“With a dick like yours, I’d be stupid not to be. I’m sure whatever you decide to do will feel mighty fine on my pleasure scale.”
“So I may indulge myself.”
“Us, sweetie,” she said with a smile, figuring she was way past any opportunity to play the shrinking violet.
“Right.” He liked that she didn’t play games, a rarity in his world. Throwing the handcuffs back into the bedside table, he quickly wiped himself off and came to his feet. “Do you need anything? I need a drink of water.” Smoothing back his hair with both hands, he readjusted the binder holding his ponytail in place. “How about you?”
“Me, too—water.”
“There’s plenty of liquor or wine around here— champagne, if you like.”
“I’d mostly like you.”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” Had she known that her words had a familiar ring, requests like that frequent years ago when he was in culinary school and waiting tables on the side in upscale restaurants? It had been pretty much a fucking smorgasbord in those days. Between work, school, and keeping the ladies happy, sleep had been scarce.
He had a good feeling that getting to know darling Liv might be déjà vu all over again. “Rest up,” he said with a grin. “I’ll be right back.”
But he wasn’t.
Liv could hear him rummaging through Chaz’s kitchen cupboards, drawers opening and shutting, cabinet doors ditto, the sound of a refrigerator door closing with that soft thud of a vacuum seal.
“Need help?” she called out, her voice drifting over the glass block walls separating the living/bedroom area from the kitchen in the loft space.
“The kind of help you can give me doesn’t require you moving. Take it easy, reflect on the state of the world—or not, considering the current chaos. Better yet, count the condoms we have left. I was thinking we should try to use them up.”
Liv smiled. “You do know how to sweet-talk a lady.”
“How about some tapas? Does that put you in the mood, too?”
How did he know?
she thought, jumping out of bed. Standing in the open doorway to the kitchen two seconds later, she decided not only was her personal chef more gorgeous than one could ever imagine—his awesome cock alone capable of making one starry-eyed—but here he was making her tapas, her all-time favorite food. “When I heard the word
tapas
, I thought I must have been dreaming. You’re going to feed me tapas?”
He shot her a grin. “That’s what I do, babe. Feed people. Besides, I’m hungry. I forgot to eat today.”
“Just for the record, I hate people who say they forgot to eat. I would
never
forget to eat.”
He wasn’t about to argue with her. “Whatever you’re doing seems to be working.” His gaze raked her from head to toe in a quick appraisal. “You’re every man’s fantasy.”
“Back at you. You’re definitely centerfold material.” She smiled. “As is your spectacular friend,” she added with a tip of her head to the pertinent object.
“As long as you’re happy, we’re happy. Do you want a robe? There might be one around here, although I thought we’d eat in bed.”
Jeez, he was a humble man, even with his looks and celebrity. How unusual was that? She knew men who looked like him who had egos from hell. “Bed sounds good. For whatever,” she murmured teasingly.
He looked up from cutting chorizo sausage in a blur of motion and offered her a flashing grin. “Food first and then whatever. And I’m definitely open to suggestions.”
Ever since she’d arrived in the doorway, he’d been swiftly slicing and dicing while keeping an eye on two pans on the stove. Flipping in ingredients from time to time, he’d toss them with an effortless flick of his wrist before resuming his cutting. His movements were sure, smooth as silk, his unruffled calm Zen-like. Clearly, his expertise extended beyond the bedroom.
Leaning over to pull out a bottle of champagne from an under-counter wine cooler, he opened it with a deft twist and set it next to two glasses. “Lucky for us, Chaz left his kitchen fully supplied. I’m guessing he entertained up here.”
“He did. Chaz didn’t like to be alone. He always had people around.”
“From the looks of his stock of condoms, I’d say women in particular.”
“He was known for his beautiful waitpeople.”
She’d kept her statement gender neutral, so out of curiosity, he asked, “Was he a switch-hitter?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. I just met him after I started my winery. He’s a local boy, though. Or was.”
“Very much
was
, according to him. Apparently, Saint Barts is his nirvana. He said he’s going to be buried there.”
“What about you?”
“About what?”
“Do you have any burial plans?”
He laughed. “Not in the near future, I hope. Do you ask that question often?”
“Not really. Coming from the West Coast, I just thought you might have some avant-garde notions . . . you know . . . like green burials.”
“Haven’t thought about it. You?” Was she into crystals and shit? Not that it was going to curb his enthusiasm in any way. As soon as he ate something, he was going to take care of his hard-on.
“My only plans are to live to a hundred.” She grinned. “So I’ve got time. What are you making?” She moved closer to the stove.
“Chorizo and chickpeas, some cubed potatoes with a few spices, and a hot green olive vinaigrette.” He pointed at one pan. “And this”—he jabbed his knife at the other pan— “is Gambas al Ajillo, Spanish shrimp. It should have garlic, but in the interests of not offending you, I left it out, but there’s some bay leaf, chili pepper, olive oil, and shrimp, of course, served with that crusty bread over there.” He nodded at an earthenware platter. “Pour yourself a glass of champagne and get two forks from that drawer”—he jabbed his thumb sideways—“while I get this food on some plates.” Opening the door on one of three waist-high ovens, he drew out a sheet pan of toasted tortillas and proceeded to break them into pieces. Setting a bowl of freshly made, chunky tomatillo salsa on a platter, he surrounded the bowl with the hot tortilla chips, briskly shoved it aside and, lifting the steaming pan of shrimp from the burner, piled the contents on another plate in a perfect mound. The chorizo dish was assembled as quickly. “After you,” he said with a smile, tucking the champagne bottle under one arm, arranging two platters on the same arm, picking up the tomatillo plate and two cloth napkins with his other hand. “I make a great steak-frites, too, if you feel like it later.”
“Are you kidding? I won’t be able to move after all this food.”
“Then feel free to lie there and think of England.”
“No joke. I might take you up on that.”
“You won’t hear any complaints from me.”
“You’re way too accommodating. You must have to kick women out afterward. Between your great cooking and fabulous dick, I doubt anyone wants to leave.”
Avoiding a reply to the kicking-women-out remark, which hit damn close to home, he said, “Actually, I don’t often cook . . . at times like this.” He politely chose the bland phrase. “I was just hungry.” He wasn’t about to admit to either her or himself that having her stay might have figured in his decision to cook.
“Then I lucked out.”
“I’d promised you a meal, although this is just starters. Feel free to hold me to my offer.” For some reason she was making him operate way the hell out in left field. Not that he was about to parse his feelings at the moment; he had more interesting options. Such as eat, then fuck until he couldn’t get it up anymore.
He arranged the platters between them on the bed, handed her a napkin, drank down the glass of champagne she’d given him in one long draft, set the glass aside, and then, dropping into a propped-on-one-elbow sprawl, waved his hand at the food. “Please . . . be my guest.”
Seated opposite him, her legs crossed in an effortless yoga pose, she lifted her glass of champagne in his direction. “This is way nice.”
“Yeah . . . I agree.”
Their eyes met, and they both felt the freaking magic.
Absurd
, he thought.
Only in movies
, she thought.
“The food’s getting cold,” he said. The last person in the world to subscribe to voodoo emotion, he picked up a shrimp and took a bite.
Quickly draining her glass of champagne in an effort to dismiss the radical feeling with a dose of alcohol, she laid the empty glass on the bed, picked up her fork, and speared a piece of sausage.
They ate in silence for a brief time, both busy rationalizing away that moment when their eyes had met—words like
aberrant
and
crackpot
common to their thoughts.
Liv spoke first. She was less comfortable with silence. “This is absolutely delicious.” She waved her fork over the food. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled. “I’ve been eating out since I came, but fortunately, Chaz’s freezer and larder were full.”
“Having a personal chef is
very
nice.”
“You within reach is nice. Even if you’re doing a number on my head. But, whatever . . . I’m not complaining.”
“I’m feeling a little wacky, too. And it’s not as though this is virgin territory for me”—she lifted her hand to the room at large—“you know . . . sex.”
“No shit. Are you tired, too? I was up all night ordering stuff.” He shrugged. “That’s my excuse.”
“I slept for eight hours. I have no excuse.” She nodded at his erection. “Other than the bewitching power of that.”
“Then I’d better keep up my strength,” he said, reaching for another shrimp. “These are supposed to be aphrodisiacs, right?”
“So that’s why I’m wetter than wet.” She wasn’t about to tell him the truth—that she’d been riding a lustful wave from the first time she saw him.