Her Valentine Fantasy. Nancy Warren
eyes had a stunned expression in them, which she was fairly certain would be matched in her own eyes.
“Wow,” she said shakily. “You are a great kisser.” Best kisser in the world, actually. Best kisser since the mouth had been invented.
His grin was intimate, secret. “The kiss tells everything, don’t you think?”
She nodded even though she wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at.
He reached out and took the fork from her hand, pushed a generous bite of Fantasy onto it and raised the fork to her lips. Oh, God, he was feeding her, and making it seem like foreplay, which she supposed it was. As her mouth opened to accept the rich dessert, he said, “I think if the kiss strikes sparks, you know the sex will be amazing.”
Again that sound came out of her throat, not a purr, not a growl, not a moan—well, maybe a moan—but it all lumped together in an incoherent cave-person sound. He must have correctly interpreted the sound as a “yes, please, I wantwantwant, needneedneed, some completely amazing sex.”
And she wanted it, needed it, now.
Gently, she took the fork out of his hand and put the Fantasy-in-a box on the table. Then she closed the distance between them. This time, she did the kissing. She brushed her lips gently over his, then pressed against him, taking the kiss deep, deeper.
At the same time, her hands were busy, exploring the contours of a seriously buff chest, abs that felt rock hard. He wrapped strong arms around her and began doing some exploring of his own. She could hear traffic sounds from way, way down below where, amazingly, the real world still carried on. But up here there was no sound but their breathing, growing more heated by the minute.
The next sound she heard was her zipper sliding stealthily down her back. How glad she was that she’d chosen to wear her sexiest lingerie tonight, hoping her date would rock her world. Wearing something delectable against her skin made her feel sexy.
The irony was not lost on her that she’d dressed for a man who’d blown her off on their first date and she was clearly about to sleep with this man who hadn’t even asked her for a date.
She considered asking him his name, but one of her dark, secret fantasies had always been to make love with a stranger. No one but her battery-powered rabbit knew how many times she’d fantasized about having sex with a man who showed up one day, dark and sexy and perhaps a little dangerous, who drenched her in passion, took her to places she’d never imagined possible. He wasn’t part of her past, and there was no future beyond her orgasm—he was only here in this present moment to give her pleasure.
In her wildest dreams she’d never imagined living out her fantasy.
It seemed she was about to do exactly that.
She did know a bit about who he was, of course. He was an excellent waiter at one of the top restaurants in Seattle. Sure, he could still turn out to moonlight as a serial killer, but all her instincts about people–and they were pretty good—told her she could trust him.
She leaned forward so the blue fabric slipped off her shoulders and slid to her waist.
The sound he made was satisfyingly incoherent. He reached out and traced the outline of her breasts through the ecru lace of her bra. Her nipples ached for his touch and she could feel them acting as pushy as they knew how, thrusting forward, begging for attention.
But he didn’t rush there. Not yet. He continued his slow exploration of her body while she began struggling with the buttons of his black dress shirt, fumbling in her need to see him, touch him, taste him.
When at last she had his shirt open she understood her own haste. The man was gorgeous. Tanned skin that suggested he loved the outdoors, muscles that confirmed he was athletic. He helped her pull the shirt all the way off and she wondered if carrying heavy trays of food and drink had built up his arms like that. She suspected other, more vigorous pursuits.
Other than the perfect thatch of chest hair that continued in a coy line to disappear into his pants, he had no distinguishing marks. No scars, no tattoos, no piercings.
She placed her open mouth on the hot skin of his chest and felt the strong pound of his heart against her lips. While she was over there, she tackled his belt buckle. He kicked off his shoes and dealt with his socks while she worked his zipper carefully over an impressive package.
He cupped his hands over hers for a moment and held her in place for a moment. His dark eyes held her gaze. “Are you sure about this?”
She squeezed gently. “I’ve never been so sure about anything,” she whispered.
CHAPTER THREE
Sam didn’t do casual sex anymore. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hookup. But he hadn’t had a girlfriend in a while, either. He and Chantale, the temperamental chef he’d worked with at his last restaurant, before he went out on his own, had ended when she threw a chef’s knife at him. She claimed she’d aimed to sink her deboning knife into the side of beef hanging in the walk-in fridge, but the homicidal look in her eye had suggested to him that backing slowly out of that relationship might be a healthy choice.
Luckily, she’d soon fallen for a baker at Pike Place Market and the two were now settled happily, and distantly, in her native Toulouse.
As his hands touched silky warm skin and he heard the sighs of an aroused woman, he realized he hadn’t had sex in almost three months. He’d been crazy busy with the restaurant, and to clear his head and stay in shape, he liked backcountry skiing in the winter and biking the rest of the year. Which hadn’t left him a lot of time for women.
Maybe it was a buildup of being horny, but he never remembered wanting a woman as much as he wanted this one. She was funny and serious at the same time, sweet and sexy in one package. Gorgeous and a little insecure, an absolutely packed pantry of opposites.
And no one knew better than a restaurateur how amazing a dish turned out when filled with complementary opposites. So, he let this sweet and spicy woman take her bold and timid hold of him. She finished with the zipper, reached in and gripped him.
They both gasped. If she’d been only bold, he might have been turned off. No man liked having his meat handled the way a butcher handled sausage. And if she’d been too timid he’d have felt that maybe she was too far out of her comfort zone and he’d feel bad, maybe slow things down. But she was both bold and timid, which was so arousing that he couldn’t have stopped. Not on his own. If she pulled her hand out of his pants and said she’d changed her mind, then okay. No harm, no foul.
But if she wanted to keep exploring, to slide her sweet, sexy hand up and down like that, he wasn’t the man to stop her.
Except that if he didn’t, this was all going to be over way too fast.
So he took her wrist in a gentle grip, pulled her slowly away and kissed her palm. When she looked at him in inquiry he had to be honest. “You’re doing me in,” he whispered. “I want to last a long time for you.”
Bold and timid danced back and forth in her gaze and finally bold won. She said, “Who says there’s only going to be one time?”
He grinned at her, “Oh, you are my kind of woman.”
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