A Sip of You(47)

“So you did go back to the house?” I asked, following him to the kitchen, where he dropped the bags. He looked as though he’d come straight from a business meeting. He wore charcoal trousers and an ice blue button-down shirt, open at the collar. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his tie and suit jacket. He’d also rolled the sleeves to his elbows. My gaze flicked to his bronzed, corded forearms.

“Yes, but there was no reason for me to stay without you there.” He smiled a tentative smile and ran his hands along my shoulders and arms then across my breasts. I winced and pulled back. His expression was instantly concerned. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

I felt my face flush with heat, but not from arousal. Really, after everything we’d done and shared, I didn’t know why a little biology should embarrass me. And maybe if he knew, he’d ease off the physical stuff and give me a little time to start thinking with my head again. “My breasts hurt. That’s typical for me when I have my period.”

“I see.” He didn’t blink, and his eyes never left mine. “Maybe I can find a way to make them—and you—feel better.” Instead of shying away from me, his hand began to gently caress my left breast. His touch felt surprisingly good, and when he touched my other breast too, I let out a slow, ragged breath. He leaned close, and I could smell the scent of his shampoo and aftershave. His mouth dipped below my ear again, and I felt his breath on the tender skin there. He feathered hot kisses onto my skin and pressed that hard erection firmly against me.

“William…” I could hardly catch my breath. My cheeks felt hot, and I knew some of the flush in them was from embarrassment. I was wet for him, my body responding as always to his touch. I should have known William wouldn’t be put off. For most guys that time of the month was a deterrent, but William didn’t seem turned off in the least.

As though reading my thoughts, he said, “Your bleeding doesn’t bother me. Are you uncomfortable with it?”

“I…” Was I? I had no idea. “I guess not.”

“Good. Orgasms can help with cramps.” He smiled down at me, and it was that charming, playful smile that always managed to slay me. I felt my heart clench in my chest, and tried not to think too hard about it. I had a suspicion I was still in love with William Maddox Lambourne.

I shook my head, trying to muster some defense. “I don’t even want to know how you know that.”

“All that matters is I know it to be true.” He gave me a long, promising look then turned to the bags on the counter. “Let’s get these unloaded and I’ll tell you what’s for dinner.”

From the amount of food William had purchased, we were obviously cooking together and staying in for dinner. With the weather a mess, that made sense, but I still felt a stab of disappointment. If we went out, we’d have a public space as a buffer between us. Right now I felt like I could use that buffer—obviously I wasn’t upset enough with him to be able to resist his kisses or caresses.

But I wasn’t going to suggest we go out. I knew how much William loved to cook, and now that I saw him, saw how concerned he was about even a little wince I made, I felt guilty for leaving him in Napa. He must have been sick with worry. And he didn’t need that on top of everything else that was going on. I never thought I was the kind of girl who bailed on her boyfriend during his time of need, the kind of girl who got all selfish and needy when she wasn’t a guy’s number one priority every second. Unfortunately, that was exactly the way I’d acted, and I regretted it now.

“So what are we having?” I asked when we were done unloading. I surveyed the wrapped meat, herbs, mushrooms, and a bottle of red wine. If I’d been a chef, I would have been able to put the ingredients together into a meal, but I had no clue. Fancy hamburgers?

“Beef bourguignon,” William said. “Have you had it before?”

“Maybe…”

“It’s a really simple French stew—good for a cold winter night—with beef braised in red Burgundy with garlic, onions, herbs, and mushrooms. It’s delicious.”

I nodded and watched as he unwrapped the ingredients and pulled out pots and pans. He poured two glasses of wine and handed one to me. I’d learned to stay out of his way when he was cooking. If I tried to help, I only amused him. “Why don’t you chop the onions?” William said, indicating a cutting board and knife.

“Sure.”

“You remember how?” he asked, his voice teasing.

“Yes.” I started chopping, my thoughts returning, no doubt as William intended, to the night he had showed me how to chop onions at his penthouse. The blindfold and frozen grapes night. But tonight William didn’t stand behind me, guiding my hands as I quartered and turned the onion. His muscled chest wasn’t pressed against my back; his warm, sure hands weren’t over mine on the knife.