Paris
I HADN’T SPENT two days in bed in years.
The nice weather after the crazy storm, a weekend away, the backdrop of San Francisco, the crazy attraction that roared between us—pick any one of them and you wouldn’t be wrong.
They were all the reasons I’d said yes when he asked me to spend the weekend with him.
We’d fucked, went to Fisherman’s Wharf, fucked some more, went to Alcatraz, then fucked some more. We’d rode the streetcar everywhere we went, walked up and down crazy hills for the fun of it, shopped in Union Square, ate and drank and laughed, took silly pictures.
Laughed like I only remembered ever doing with him.
It was Sunday night, and in the morning, things would return to normal, but for now, we had one more night.
After showering, I changed into the gold lamé dress we spotted in a window at a vintage clothing store. The dress was like the one Farrah Fawcett had worn in her day and was considered vintage 1970’s disco. He insisted on buying it for me, and since I loved it, I added it to my ever-growing I.O.U.
I froze when I reached the last step, wondering who the hell this man was. Soft music played in from the living room. Candles burned on the tables. Pots bubbled on the cooktop and a platter of cheese and crackers sat on the center of the island.
Tyler turned, spoon in hand, when I stepped off the bottom stair in my bare feet and it creaked. My gaze drank him in. He wore low-slung, faded jeans and a Laker’s t-shirt that molded to his muscled chest and was snug around his bulging upper arms. No shoes. His own bare feet peeked out from beneath the frayed hems of his jeans. His hair was damp from the shower we’d taken and the color of expensive milk chocolate.
“Paris.” He smiled after a long moment of staring at me. No, gaping would be a better word.
“See something you like?” I smirked, my own vanity making an appearance.
“Everything, but that dress. It’s beautiful and you look incredible in it. Too bad I can’t wait to rip it off you.”
A swarm of excitement fluttered in my chest as I walked toward the island. “You’ll do no such thing.”
The dubious smirk he tossed me cut a path across his face. Flirty. Fun. Sensual. Setting the spoon down, he used a dishtowel that was slung over his shoulder to wipe his hands. “Let me pour you a glass of wine.”
It wasn’t a question.
Striding toward the kitchen island, he picked up the bottle of Cabernet that he’d set on it. It was, of course, California Jane. “What? No Highway 128 in your wine cellar?” I joked.
Smirking as he poured the ruby red liquid, he answered with, “Not yet, but after the merger, I’ll be sure to stock up.”
Nabbing a piece of cheese, I popped it my mouth and pranced through the kitchen. “There you go again, making assumptions. I thought we talked about that?”
Those eyes brimmed blue and bold when he glanced up and smiled. God that smile. That slow, lazy smile that promised hours of never-ending pleasure.
How many legs had that smile spread?
I didn’t want to know.
Over at the stove, I lifted a lid and breathed in the heavenly scent of simmering spaghetti sauce. “Ummm,” I moaned. “I’m starving.”
“It’s almost ready,” he said and pinned me with his stare as he tipped the bottle upward.
“What?” I asked, setting the lid back on the pot.
He jerked his head over toward the fireplace, which was roaring beautiful reds, oranges, and yellows. More specifically to the chair and table beside it. “Why don’t you go have a seat over there?”
“Why?”
“There’s a freshly printed contract waiting for you to read and a brand-new pen sitting beside it. All you have to do to finalize this merger, Miss Fairchild, is sign on the dotted line.”
“Great, I’ll definitely take a gander.” I was playing with him, of course. We’d discussed the merger for a good part of our time together, and he was right, it was what was best. I just wanted to read the fine print.
Moving on to the second glass, he poured the liquid into it but kept his eyes on me. “Now would be a good time.”
The oven timer dinged and I pranced over to it and opened it. Inside was a gleaming golden loaf of bread that smelled of the most delicious garlic. “You made all of this?”
Waning light filtered in through the large window behind him and if I didn’t know better, I’d say a halo loomed over him. “Yeah, I did.”
Mitts laid conveniently on the marble counter and I used them to pull the tray from the oven. “I’m impressed.”
With a glass in one hand, he prowled toward me. “I have to make sure you keep your strength up.”
After I set the pan down, I whirled around and found him leaning against the counter beside me. His hand was extended and I took the offered wine. “Uh-huh.”
“You look good like that.” he said.
“Like what?”
There was no missing the way his eyes glanced down.
I shook my head. “I will never be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen if that’s what you’re getting at.”
His shrug was casual. “Not exactly,” he said and then brushed a hand along my cheek. Leaning in, his mouth was just below my ear. “And I know what you’re doing.”
My hand trembled and the wine did a little dance in the glass. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re avoiding.”
A tangle of emotions begged for caution. “Signing is a big deal. Not that I don’t trust you, but I think I should have a clear head when I read the contract.”
He nodded. “Not a problem.”
“I’ll do it after dinner.”
Half-lidded eyes met mine. “You know,” he said, his hand gliding down the column of my neck. “We could skip dinner and fuck right now.”
Giving it a thought for a hot second, I shook my head. “Sorry, Casanova, but I’m starving.”
Sweet tension flared between us as his hand continued its path down to my shoulder. “I’m a patient man, I can wait until after dessert.”
Energy hummed in the space between us. “And what’s for dessert?”
The decadent scent of red wine wafted in my nose but it was nothing compared to the up-close visual I got of his tongue sneaking out to lick his lips. “Why, your pussy, of course, Love.”
I blushed, actually blushed. It wasn’t anything I ever did and I wasn’t the least bit comfortable with it. I shook my head and walked back over to the island, my words tangled as I came up with a suitable comeback. “I hope you have whipped cream.”
“I just might.” He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bowl of lettuce.
My heart beat frantic and wild. I breathed in, deep. Took a calming breath. This man could undo me so easily. “What else can I do to help?”
“Nothing.”
Tyler went to work straining the boiling pasta. I leaned against the island and took a sip of wine, watching him. Staring at him, actually. At the way he added the sauce to the pot and then scooped the heaping meal into a large ceramic bowl.
His hair had begun to dry and it feathered along the back of his neck and over his ears only to fall in strands over his eyebrows, almost poetically, as he strode over to the refrigerator.
He was just too pretty.
Too sexy.
Too sinful.
With a salad bowl in his hand, he strode beside me and set it down. When he unwrapped it, he glanced up, and his eyes sizzled hot and wild. My pulse raced like a stampede of horses when he leaned toward me, just a little. “Sweet or tart?” he asked, holding up two dressing bottles.
“Tart,” I replied, swallowing the desire that was lodged in my throat.
Like a master chef, he skillfully poured the Zesty Italian over the lettuce. “Like I couldn’t have guessed.” He smirked when he spoke and that look warmed me all the way to my toes.
After eating another piece of cheese, I asked, “Where’d you learn to cook, anyway?”
He sipped his wine and looked around the kitchen. “Wilhelmina, believe it or not. She only ever actually cooked two things herself—spaghetti sauce and chicken pot pies. And wait until you taste my chicken pot pie. It will rip your panties right off.”
I had to laugh, because I mean, everything came back to sex with him, didn’t it? Then again, I wanted it that way, didn’t I?
After he took another sip of wine, he pointed at my half-empty glass. “You like it, don’t you?”
“Almost as much as I like the way you look on your knees.”
Hey, I had a few zingers, too.
Somehow, I thought the only blush Tyler Holiday ever had was the kind that came in one of his family’s bottles. “Don’t get too used to it.”
I took a long, slow sip of my wine. After finishing it, I put the glass on the counter. “I might have to pencil that in as a requirement to your contract.”
The sole remaining pan on the stove began to rattle. Tyler moved toward it and so did I. He tilted the lid off the pot and turned off the flame beneath it and then he placed a possessive hand on the small of my back, soft and caressing. That electricity flared between us. “Move over a bit so I don’t burn you.”
Stepping to the side, I became mesmerized as he scooped the meatballs into another ceramic bowl and then finished putting our meal together.
We ate at the table, we talked, and we gazed at the twinkling lights from the bridge. I wondered if they were just stars in my own eyes.
It.
Was.
Romantic.
“Are you done?” he asked, pushing his own plate in front of him.
Stuffed, I set my napkin on the table. “Yes, it really was delicious. I ate way too much.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up and he stood, placing his hand to his ear. “Is that a compliment?”
I nodded.
“Say it again,” he growled.
There was no way I couldn’t smile. “You’re such a dork sometimes,” I said. “But really, you’re pretty good at this domestic stuff. I might marry you just for your spaghetti sauce.”
After setting our empty glasses on the island, Tyler continued with his show, placing a hand over his heart and bowing. Looking at me through the fringe of his hair, he smiled with that devastating charm he knew he had all too well. “You are so going to say yes.”
The words had just come out. I hadn’t actually meant to say that last part, not under the circumstances we were in.
He sat down at the opposite end of the table and pushed his chair back. “Stand up, Paris and come over here,” he said bluntly.
I stared at him.
“Now, Paris,” he said impatiently. “I cooked dinner, now I’m waiting for my dessert.”
It was strange the way I found myself doing what he was demanding when he demanded it. The thrill I got from his tone and the promise of ecstasy in it was too much to turn down.
I did what he asked and went to him.
I gave a gasp of surprise when his hands lifted my dress and yanked down my panties before lifting me and setting me on the edge of the table.
“Here?” I questioned.
“Yes, Paris, the table is where dessert is served, isn’t it? I don’t have any whipped cream, but I’ll be sure to have it next time,” he winked, “so you can lick it off my cock.”
He pushed me back and scooted forward in his chair. “I have such a sweet tooth when it comes to you,” he said in a gruff tone.
Desire pooled low in my belly, spreading like a flash fire to every other part of my body.
He spread my thighs wide and gazed down at my glistening flesh. “And your perpetually wet pussy is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I think I might have to have dessert after breakfast, lunch, and dinner from now on.”
“If you do that, you might get fat,” I said hoarsely, so turned on I was already writhing on the table.
He ran one finger down the seam of my folds and up the crack of my ass. “Oh, Love, I’ll work it off, afterwards, I promise.”
My mouth was watering with anticipation, as if I was the one about to have the most scrumptious dessert known to man.
Then again, perhaps, being dessert was far better than eating it because when he lowered his head and took his first swipe with his lethal tongue, there was nothing, absolutely nothing I wanted more than him.
Him.
Just him.