A Sip of You(98)

His hand brushed down my hair, twirling it around his fingers and tilting my head back gently. “I hate fighting with you.” His voice was soft and serious.

“I hate fighting with you. This,” I squeezed him tightly, “this is what I like.”

“Mmm. We can agree on that.” He lowered his mouth and brushed his lips over mine in a slow, tantalizing stroke. My lips tingled and tickled as I strained to close the distance between us. He still held my hair, and he used that hold to keep me from capturing his mouth as he darted his tongue out and ran it lightly over my upper lip.

I closed my eyes, feeling my whole body simmer with a heat that I knew would build and build until he made it bubble over. His tongue now licked lightly at my bottom lip and then he sank his teeth softly into the flesh. “I’ve wanted to do that since you walked into my office,” he murmured. “I want to see you bite your lip when you come.”

I shivered and took a shaky breath. I had to remember what I’d wanted to accomplish. I was getting sidetracked. It was very difficult not to when I touched William. “We need to talk,” I said.

“Dirty talk? I like it.” His eyes sparkled down at me as he tried to contain a grin.

I couldn’t help but smile in return. He was in one of his playful moods. I loved those, but I couldn’t afford to indulge it at the moment. “You know what I mean.”

He sighed and released my hair, but he didn’t step back. He was going to make me break the contact between us. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to release him. “I—” I cleared my throat and tried to think how to begin.

“I haven’t been a very considerate host. Would you like something to drink?”

“I…yes. That sounds great.” I could use the time to formulate my thoughts, but instead of leaving me to grab me something to drink, he took my hand and tugged me along with him into the kitchen.

It was as cold and stark as I remembered. The cabinets and counters were sleek white, and the stainless steel appliances gleamed under the expensive spotlighting. My counters were littered with empty water bottles, random pieces of camera equipment, and half completed to-do lists. William’s counters were bare and spotless. Hutch Morrison didn’t have the monopoly on meticulous kitchen organization, it seemed.

We stopped in front of the refrigerator—a ridiculously oversized SubZero—and he opened the white cabinet next to it, which concealed a wine cooler. He paused for a second as he surveyed the contents, then pulled out a bottle. I had a peek inside before he closed the door. The bottles were organized perfectly by variety, turned label up, and stacked in neat rows. I shook my head. “Sometimes I wonder what you’re doing with me.”

He raised a brow as he slid out a drawer, produced a corkscrew, and began to open the bottle of wine. “Why would you say that? It’s me who doesn’t deserve you. You’re talented, smart, beautiful, and great in bed. How lucky am I?”

Well, when he put it that way… My cheeks flushed, but I made myself accept the compliment. “Thank you. I just meant that I’m such a mess, and you’re so organized.” I watched as he effortlessly pulled out the cork and then grabbed two wine glasses from an upper cabinet. He poured, filling each with a deep pink liquid that I immediately recognized.

“Is that the same rosé we drank at Casa di Rosabela?” I asked. The rosé that he was so proud of, the rosé which had inspired my safe word. I could feel my blush deepen across my cheeks.

William smiled broadly as he handed me a glass. “Very observant. It is. See, I’ll make a wine connoisseur out of you yet, Catherine. Cheers.” We touched glasses. I sipped the wine, dribbling a bit on my bottom lip. I lifted my hand to catch it before it ran onto my chin, but he grabbed my hand and shook his head. His eyes were dark and intense. My breath hitched.

“Messy can be sexy,” he said, touching his finger to my mouth. “Very sexy.” He dipped his head and licked the drop of wine from my bottom lip. At the taste of him mixed with the bright yet delicate flavors of the rosé, my thoughts flashed back to Napa, to our night with the honey and handcuffs and his scorching hot kisses between my legs. My arms came up and I wrapped them around his neck, pulling his mouth to mine for a deeper kiss. He didn’t resist, and this time I pushed him back, pinning him to the counter and pressing against him.

“I thought…you wanted to talk,” he said, his voice husky and breathless with need. I loved that I could do this to him, that I could make him want me so much.

“Talking can wait,” I muttered. “I’ve missed you too much.”