Pleasing Her SEAL(9)

       
           


       

Maybe it was all the weddings. Thirteen of them in eighteen months.  Once upon a time, weddings had been her favorite way to spend a  Saturday, but she was tired of standing on the sidelines. Tired of  watching other people hook up and live out their fantasies. She didn't  need a groom of her own, but a man? Temporarily? That worked for her.  Where was the harm in borrowing Mason for the rest of her vacation? The  hunk definitely brought out her inner tease.

Bad Maddie.

He was big and built, powerful shoulders flexing beneath his white  T-shirt. She had no idea how he stayed so pristine in the kitchen. There  wasn't a smear of flour or chocolate on him anywhere she could see. It  was like her own personal challenge to see if she could crack his stoic  surface and mess him up. Only in the best possible ways, she thought  virtuously. Nothing mean or petty. Just...sexy.

God, was he ever sexy.

And that was before he said the magic words. "Strawberries or whipped  cream?" The smile quirking the corner of his mouth was downright  naughty. "Or both?"

"You have to ask?" Because, seriously, was there more than one possible answer?

"A vote for both." With a flourish, he spread strawberries over the  topmost pancakes and followed with whipped cream, and not the kind from  the aerosol bottle. Nope. He had a fancy stainless-steel number that  promised all sorts of dairy goodness. There was definitely something to  be said for a man who cooked. He picked up the two plates and nodded his  head toward the small table. "Sit down."

Fresh whipped cream was a motivator. She hopped off the counter and sat at the table.

He wasn't much of a talker. He didn't open up and tell her all about  himself, or even share the usual dating details like favorite movies,  favorite songs or favorite sexual positions. Instead, he sat there and  listened. She told herself that wasn't a turn-on, but really...yeah. It  was.

"What made you decide to blog about weddings?"

"I was laid off. I knew how to type." She wiggled her French-manicured  fingers at him. "And I had a stack of wedding invitations as high as  Bill Mountain."

"A fresh start." He nodded grimly, as if he understood, although she  had to wonder what he'd ever failed at. He seemed pretty darn perfect to  her.

She and failure, on the other hand, were BFFs. She'd been an executive  assistant before the software start-up folded. No Silicon Valley  billionaire had crossed her path, although she'd had a few conference  room fantasies to go with a social life that consisted of online dating,  dating apps and friends of friends. She gave good first dates, but guys  didn't call back. Or email back, text back or IM her back, and it was  partly her fault. She knew what she wanted in a man and she knew she had  things to offer. He'd be honest and reliable and, when she was around  him, she'd feel safe enough to be herself. He'd like her first, and then  he'd love her. In exchange for all of himself, she'd offer up all she  had. She definitely wouldn't have sex just because or to cross the next  step off in some dating checklist. But even if she was looking for Mr.  Right, she'd also settle for an attractive Mr. Right Now as long as he  came with an orgasm for two.

"Bills are an excellent motivator," she admitted softly.

He laughed. "Yeah. Electricity and running water are kind of addictive."

She'd marked the date on her calendar when she'd earned enough from  affiliate marketing to pay her rent. Forget celebrating dating  anniversaries-because that had been a day to remember.

"Why weddings?" he continued. "Other than a pressing need to keep the lights on."

"You don't think I'm a personal expert?"

He gave her another lazy grin. "Are you admitting to being a serial bride?"

"I was a bona fide expert. I'd been to a dozen in five months because  my college friends paired off like randy rabbits. I'd also worn out my  copy of Wedding Crashers and thought, ‘I could do that.' One big party  with free food and bad dresses, right? Then I found out that I actually  like weddings. I like the food, the flowers, the really bad and  over-the-top dresses. And, yes, I like the look the groom gets on his  face when he sees his bride walking up the aisle toward him." She  paused. "Does that scare you?"                       
       
           


       

He finished his last pancake and stole a bite of hers. "Not  particularly. Is this where your other dates run screaming for the  exit?"

"Honestly? Yeah." She sighed. Blogging about weddings was like having  the best-ever paper-dolls set, where she could try on all the clothes  and the locations for herself, but without committing. Guys, however,  seemed to assume she had to score a ring of her own ASAP. At the very  least, they expected an endless series of boring Saturdays dressed up in  a tuxedo. And while she wanted to find The One and get hitched, it  didn't have to happen this week, this month or even this year.  Just...sometime. Sometime would be good.

"Who knew?" He'd eaten with neat efficiency, dividing each pancake into  even sections. Finished, he lined up his knife and fork on the edge of  the plate with military precision.

She, on the other hand, had only a passing familiarity with the word  neat. It had zero practical applications to her everyday life. She  pointed a fork at him. "Finish your thought."

"That someone could make a living writing about weddings on the internet."

"Not a good living," she muttered. "This Fantasy Island gig is my shot  at serious advertising revenue. If I do a good job here, other clients  should follow. Hopefully before the electric company turns off my  power."

He laughed. "So you're the Pied Piper of the blogosphere."

"Except the Pied Paper was kind of creepy-and he had thousands of rats  following him." She, on the other hand, had an entourage of one. "You're  a good listener." Whoops. The words had come out more accusation than  not.

He shrugged. "I have sisters."

And she'd bet they worshipped him. The twinkle in his eyes said the feeling was mutual. "How many?"

"Too many?" A smile tugged at his gorgeous mouth as he relaxed, his  arms stretched out over the back of the bench. His bare feet brushed  against hers. He was in her space.

And she liked it.

"Four," he continued. "I have four sisters. A mother. Three aunties and  three female cousins. I get plenty of practice listening."

She could just imagine. "No wonder you're not much of a talker."

"Pick a topic."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You're willing to make a blanket commitment to talking about anything?"

"You're right. That could get me in trouble." He pushed to his feet. Oh, yum. All smooth male power. "I should clean up."

No. He should get really, really dirty.

"I have a few ideas." Reaching out, she hooked a finger in the hem of his T-shirt.

"Of where to start?" Now he looked amused. Or maybe that was the  strawberry smear she'd just deposited on his shirt. Switching hands, she  stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked it clean. He made a hoarse  sound as if he felt the pull of her mouth in interesting places.

Definitely not interested in letting go. "Are you cursing?"

"I'm cleaning," he said firmly, grabbing her plate as if she didn't have a stranglehold on his shirt.

She tugged a little harder. Come closer. "You need one of those maid's aprons."

"You see me in white-and-black frills? Besides, I think that might  count as sexual harassment." He set the plates down and freed his shirt.  She couldn't help but notice, however, that he didn't step back.

"Are you complaining?" Because if he was, she could take the hint.

He shook his head, gave her a mock-stern look. "I should."

"You have whipped cream on your mouth." Since he was so conveniently  close...she tucked her fingers in the waistband of his pants and pulled.  No need for words-his new position put him almost on eye level with  her.

"Bossy," he said with another one of his slow, sexy smiles. And then, "Prove it."

She loved a good dare.

"Right here." She scooped up whipped cream from her plate and pressed a  fingertip against the corner of his mouth. "I'll help you with it."

Mason's eyes darkened and he slammed his hands down on either side of  her legs, leaning in. His shoulders pressed her thighs wide and she  fought the urge to drape them over his shoulders and tell him to dive on  in, but she didn't want to put him off. She knew what she liked and she  wasn't afraid to ask for it, but some guys were scared off by that. It  was their loss, but if Mason was a card-carrying member of the Men With  Small Penises Club, their pancake-eating fun would be over.