Red Hot Holiday Bundle(10)

All she did was kick off her shoes, toss her purse, her attaché, her panty hose and her suit jacket to the sofa, and follow her nose.

The smell of butter, garlic and parmesan cheese had her drooling. But the true sensory meltdown came the minute she turned the corner into the kitchen and got a good look at her cook. Wow.

Just wow.

Drooling fool that she was, those were the only words that came to mind. Randy stood in front of the sink, draining bow-tie pasta into a colander, steam rising like a devil’s halo around his face.

He wore suit pants, navy, and a white dress shirt with the sleeves cuffed over his forearms. His tie hung askew over his unbuttoned collar.

Once the steam cleared, he saw her and smiled. “Is alfredo okay? Neither one of us had ingredients for marinara.”

“You look like you do and you cook.” She clucked her tongue, shook her head, leaned one shoulder against the wall at the kitchen entrance. “How lucky can a girl get?”

“You think this is good,” he said, nodding to the pasta he dumped from colander to serving bowl, “wait till I get you in bed.”

Honestly? She thought she’d die from that particular wait.

But telling him that was not the way to keep him in line—something she’d decided she was going to have to do for this affair to work. He was just this close to being too sure of himself—and of her.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “I’m assuming I have you to thank for the cool air as well as for dinner?”

He moved back to the stove, stirred the simmering alfredo. “I like it cool when I cook.”

She pushed off the doorway and walked farther into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator for salad makings—the least she could do to help.

What she found was a huge serving bowl of mixed greens already prepared.

“Is there anything you haven’t thought of?” she asked, closing the door to the fridge.

He gave her a look that made it quite clear that he always thought of everything.

That realization and the responding twist tightening her tummy sent her out of the kitchen proper to the seat in the attached eating nook.

He’d obviously opened the bottle of wine sitting on the table there in anticipation of her arrival, and before she managed to pick it up, he was filling her glass.

That done, he brought over the single serving bowl of salad tossed with vinaigrette and another covered dish of the alfredo sauce and pasta.

Then he made a “get up” motion with his hand.

She did, holding on to her wineglass as she slid out of the seat. He moved to take her spot on the padded bench then patted his lap. “Let’s eat.”

Oh, my. If the idea of being that close didn’t stir more than her hunger for food. She doubted she’d even be able to eat; then again, she was starving.

In the end, she had no trouble hiking her straight skirt up her thighs enough to straddle his.

He was hard beneath her, his belly, his legs, as was the edge of the table in the small of her back when she reached for his drink. She handed it to him before she picked up the bowl of salad and the single fork he’d supplied.

Balanced with her bottom on his knees, her calves hugging his thighs, she stabbed the salad until the tines were filled and offered him the first bite.

His eyes never left hers as he chewed, as he swallowed, as he chased the salad with a swallow of wine.

She sat with the fork hovering over the bowl she held, staring at the motions of his mouth, remembering the texture and pressure of his lips, reliving their kiss, growing wet, wondering if he noticed.

She didn’t know what to do. Silly, really. She should feed him. Or feed herself, she mused, dropping her gaze to the contents of the bowl and breathing deeply as she ate.

And then as he set his glass on the table to work open the buttons on her blouse, her breathing stopped completely. She could no longer chew or swallow, and her hands trembled, holding on to the fork and the bowl.

His fingers were fabulously talented, never fumbling as he slipped the tiny ivory-colored buttons through their holes. He bared the camisole she wore, then took the bowl and fork from her hands to pull her arms free of her sleeves.

The blouse fell loose behind her. And while her hands were free, he went ahead and pulled off the undergarment, leaving her in only her bra. That done, he reached for the bowl of pasta.

“My turn,” he said, forking up a bite and offering it to her.

“Oh, no,” she said before she ate. “It’s mine.”

Her mouth full, she did all her talking with her hands, finishing what he’d started when he’d loosened his tie, pulling the length of fine silk from his collar and sliding it through her hands, turning her mind to the wicked fun she could have with him were he tied down.