The One In My Heart

It was never tiramisu that I wanted, was it?

He turned around and considered me. The flare of heat on my skin—as if someone had aimed a blowtorch at my throat and cheeks. “I wouldn’t say no-strings-attached literally—sometimes it’s fun to be tied up in bed. But yes, a metric ton of sex is right near the top of my Christmas wish list.”

He bit into the pear again. The sight of his teeth sinking into the firm flesh of the fruit caused a jolt of lust in me such as I hadn’t felt in years, perhaps ever.

Everything about our encounter was out of the ordinary. I couldn’t tell whether I wasn’t quite myself—or whether I was more myself than I’d ever been anywhere, with anyone.

The rain let up all of a sudden, its steady drumming softening to a pitter-patter on the roof. The fridge, too, fell quiet. But my heart continued to rattle my rib cage, its fast, hard slams thunderous in my ears.

He lowered his gaze for a moment, then looked back at me from underneath his eyelashes. “Is silence consent?”

Yes.

I wanted him to come closer. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to take whatever sorcery he was working with and enfold me securely inside.

My hand settled around my throat. My skin was hot, my pulse a rapid staccato. “Not to a metric ton of sex. Maybe once, tonight. I’m saving myself for marriage.”

“So am I, but you can lead me astray anytime.”

It was the sexiest thing anyone had said to me in a while, so much so that I had to clear my throat before I could speak again. “You’re sure you want to do this? I mean, I was wandering around in the rain. Next thing you know I could be boiling your bunny.”

“I’ll send my bunny into protective custody first thing tomorrow morning.” He put away the remainder of the tiramisu without taking his eyes off me. “Don’t underestimate the desperation of a chronically underlaid man.”

The intent in his gaze…I bit a corner of my lower lip. “Then we’d better get to it. You’ll need to sleep soon so you don’t kill patients tomorrow.”

Did he swallow? The very handsome column of his neck moved in a way that made my heart beat even faster. “In that case, would you mind standing against that wall?”

I glanced in the direction he gestured. Unlike the other walls in the kitchen, this one didn’t have exposed bricks, but was smoothly plastered. I hopped off the stool on wobbly knees and set my shoulder blades against the wall. “Like this?”

His gaze pinned me in place. I didn’t feel as if I were leading anyone astray. Quite the opposite—I felt as if I were a girl from a convent school, secretly meeting a boy from a motorcycle gang.

He rounded the island and came up to me. Dipping his head close to my still-wet hair, he said softly, “So this is what rain smells like on a woman.”

I couldn’t quite breathe. Sex should be exciting, of course, but my reaction seemed to have shot right past excitement to land somewhere near trembling anticipation.

He loosened the sash and pushed the robe off my shoulders. I was entirely exposed, my heart pounding.

He sucked in a breath. I spread my fingers against the wall, trying to hold on to something—anything. His eyes dipped low, then lower, before they met mine again.

I panted, the sound primal. Animal.

He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, revealing a runner’s build: strong shoulders, slim waist, beautifully cut abdomen.

I closed my eyes for a moment, overcome by lust. When I opened them again, it was to the sight of my hand on his upper arm. And then I did something that surprised me: I leaned in and nipped his shoulder.

He grunted. I found myself pressed hard against the wall, his hand between my thighs. For a moment I thought he’d be rough, but he touched me lightly, delicious little caresses at just the right places.

“Yes,” I whimpered. “Yes.”

He kept on with those clever fingers, finding all my most sensitive spots, stroking and teasing me, making my toes curl and my thighs weak.

I didn’t want him to ever stop. Then all at once I wanted more—skin, contact, the heat of our bodies pressed together. I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans, and touched him through his boxers. And almost yanked my hand back in shock—if a man had to pay tax according to the size of his endowment, Bennett would owe the government a lot of money.

“Do you have a condom?”

He extracted a foil packet from his pocket and spoke into my ear. “Very unprincessy of you, Evangeline. I expected to work much harder.”

“Take off your clothes,” I rasped.

He did. Then he opened the packet and rolled on the condom, his motion swift and efficient.

I stared. He caught me staring. “Like what you see?”