Cooking up a Storm (19 page)

‘Why did you bring this over here?’ Abby asked, before she could think better of it.

Storm appeared genuinely confused. ‘I wanted your opinion while they were still hot. Is there a problem?’ He looked from Abby to Jack. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

‘No, no,’ Jack assured him. He bent forwards to examine the platter, nabbed what looked like the red snapper and avocado, and popped it into his mouth. He sighed happily as he chewed. ‘Fantastic.’ He brushed his hand on his jeans and offered it to Storm. ‘I’m Jack Weston.’

‘Oh, sure.’ Storm shook it with a blazing smile. ‘I’ve seen your pictures hanging at the inn. It took me about ten seconds to become a fan. I’ve been meaning to ask Abby to introduce us.’

Abby scratched her scalp and wondered what Miss Manners would recommend in a situation like this. The men’s friendly grins could not disguise the tension that crackled between them — like rival wolves squaring off. She couldn’t help thinking they both knew more about each other than they ought. Despite Storm’s outward innocence, she got the distinct impression he had walked in before the tail-end of the conversation.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask Abby to introduce us, too,’ Jack said. ‘She and I go back a long way. I’m glad she’s decided to broaden her horizons. Bill, her old boyfriend, kept her in a bit of a stranglehold.’

‘Is that so?’ Storm’s grin tightened to the point where he was gritting his teeth.

Abby judged it time to step between them. ‘Jack was showing me the pictures for his next book.’

Storm set his platter on the sideboard and lifted the nearest photo. His face was stiffly unreadable. ‘Very nice. I can see why you’d agree to pose for him.’

So he
had
heard that part. Abby opened her mouth to say something, anything, when Jack moved next to Storm and put his hand on the other side of the proof, as if to help him hold it. Storm’s head came up, a short jerk of surprise. Jack was taller than him by four or five inches. That took Abby aback. She’d always thought of Storm as being larger than life. He was younger than Jack, and more powerfully built — and certainly more skilled in the arcane mechanics of lovemaking. But somehow Jack’s charisma outshone his, as though the older man’s confidence had deeper roots, as though it depended less on anyone’s opinion but his own. Perversely, the fact that Jack could intimidate him, if only minimally, made Abby feel more drawn to Storm.

‘You could help,’ Jack said, his thumb sliding up the side of the photo in a gesture that was oddly suggestive. He did it again and she shivered. No. She had to be imagining it. Except Jack’s shoulder and thighs were crowding Storm’s and he was breathing slow and deep, next to Storm’s ear, the way a man will when he’s thinking of kissing someone.

Watching the interplay, Abby felt as if a rug were being slowly but firmly pulled from beneath her feet. Never in a million years would she have guessed that Jack would be attracted to another man — or that he’d come on to one in front of her. He’d only eaten one
hors d’oeuvre
. As potent as Storm’s cooking was, it couldn’t account for a shift in sexual inclination. Jack must have been with men before.

The revelation brought juice and heat and movement to her sex. The walls of her sheath swelled and sensitised. What wouldn’t she give to see the two of them together, to watch Jack initiating Storm? Last night’s adventure had merely whetted her appetite for that peculiar thrill.

Meanwhile, Storm’s eyes followed the motion of Jack’s thumb. His lips parted slightly and a faint wash of colour climbed his neck. He must have realised what Jack was doing. He didn’t move away, though; didn’t in fact betray any reaction except for those two small signs.

‘You’d like me to pose with the women,’ he said, and it was not quite a question.

‘Very much.’ Jack’s voice was low but steady. He sounded just as he had when he asked Abby if she still had a crush on him — hopeful but feeling his way. He moved his thumb upwards again, this time stopping with the pad resting over Marissa’s dewy nipple. ‘The play of disparate bodies moving together is a wonderful photographic challenge.’

Storm broke the current between them by raising one sardonic brow and letting go of the picture. He took a step back. ‘I’m sure it is. And I’d be honoured to help. You needn’t pay me, though. I’d do it for the pleasure of watching an artist at work.’

They made small talk for a few minutes longer and then Jack gathered up his pictures and left. Storm watched the door until it shut, then turned to stare at Abby as if she’d grown a second head. Either that, or he wanted to grab her by the hair and fuck her senseless.

Wondering just how much he’d guessed about their relationship, and wishing she didn’t feel so uncomfortable about him knowing, Abby smoothed the front of her skirt. ‘Don’t look at me like that. He’s a world-renowned photographer. It’s not as if he’s trying to lure us into an orgy.’

Storm snorted and shook his head. ‘You may believe that, love, but I wouldn’t bet the farm.’

*   *   *

That night Storm told Abby he could handle clean-up himself, and sent her off with a curt goodnight as he put his shoulder behind the mop. He should have left this chore for the busboy; should have smiled into her eyes and whisked her to bed. But anger and pride wouldn’t let him do what he knew was wise.

Now he shoved the mop back in the cupboard and stalked through the east wing to his room. The silence mocked him. It was one thing to say he’d grit his teeth and bear whatever she did until he managed to make her fall in love with him, and quite another to put the strategy into practice.

How many men had she slept with since he’d started sleeping with her?

Tearing off his clothes as though they were strangling him, he threw himself into the navy-and-plaid-checked chair, the very same chair to which Abby had bound him the other night. Not satisfied with his position, he pushed it out from the wall and turned it to face Jack Weston’s portrait of herons flying over a marsh. He glared at its heart-stopping perfection until his eyes grew hot from not blinking.

He crossed his legs on the cushion and rubbed his hands down his bare thighs. His cock was rising. Without a thought for why this might be so, he wrapped his hand round its centre and squeezed. The pressure was pleasurable, hot with anger and lust. He shifted his index finger and rubbed its tip over the sensitive folds of the frenum. His cock stiffened further. His blood pounded. He stared at the photograph and clenched his jaw.

He had a subtle mind, this Jack. Storm knew he would prove a more formidable rival than big ole Bill and the three puppies from the Chamber of Commerce.

‘Abby and I go back a long way,’ Jack had said. Storm didn’t go back a long way with anyone. He’d had friends in LA, but none deep enough to leave a hole when they were gone. He’d always considered a lack of attachments to be an advantage. Now he wondered if that might not always be the case. Again he saw how Jack had slung his arm around Abby’s back. His fingers had stroked a tender circle on her hipbone. Only a lover would take such a familiarity. Abby hadn’t returned the caress, but she hadn’t pulled away, either. Storm sensed that, while their friendship might be old, their sexual relationship was new. Jack had probably given Abby this photograph as a spontaneous gesture of affection, a gift between friends.

Storm’s grip on his cock tightened and the fingers of his free hand curled into the arm of the chair. To his mind, the fact that Abby and Jack were friends made the situation that much more unpalatable. He wanted to rip the picture off the wall and smash it, but his throat hurt to even think of it. The photograph was so beautiful, one pure moment captured for ever with the snap of a shutter. The birds hung in the air, stretching for home.

The man had a poetic soul. The man liked women as much as Storm did. He radiated sexual energy, the sort that could flow in more than one direction. Storm could almost admire his anything-goes attitude.

But how could Abby believe this modelling job was anything but a set-up for a lesbian encounter? Storm had seen how Marissa looked at her and no doubt this Jack fellow had, too. Hell, he’d probably slept with the waitress himself. What red-blooded male wouldn’t want to see two women exploring each other for his benefit, especially two women who wouldn’t shy at letting him join in?

Which left the question of why he’d invited Storm along.

Storm’s cock gave a vigorous pound. His mouth twisted even as his finger swept soothingly over his glans. He knew the answer to that question. He’d have to be blind to have missed the vibrations the man was giving off. He’d been the recipient of that sort of interest before, though he’d never returned it. The question was: did the man know Abby liked to watch men together? Had she divulged more of her activities to Jack than she had to Storm? They were friends, he’d said. Long-time friends.

Storm’s frustration erupted in a low, self-disgusted growl.
C’est de la folie, la jalousie
! This jealousy would make him crazy. But perhaps it seemed worse than it was because it was a new emotion for him. He’d never cared enough about anyone to be jealous of their friends. It was a disgusting emotion, useless, degrading — but he didn’t know how to purge it from his system. The only thing he knew for certain was that he was missing some crucial piece of the puzzle. Jack Weston had a secret agenda, one neither he nor Abby fully understood.

He looked down at his cock, which was red now and angling upwards towards his belly. He could use a good, cleansing release, maybe a few. He looked at the window. Abby’s light was out. Did that mean she was asleep, or that she was out trawling for more partners?

Only one way to find out, he thought, with a grim, determined thrill. He pulled on a pair of dark-grey pyjama bottoms, silk: all he slept in when he slept in anything. He’d grown adept at climbing the side of Rapunzel’s cottage. He only pricked himself once this time, and managed to slide up the screen without a single squeak.

She lay in her bed, half on her side, half on her front, with her butt sticking up a little like a child’s. The urge to leap on her and fuck her senseless was nearly overwhelming. Until the urge passed, he stood at the foot of the bed breathing hard through his open mouth. He’d fuck her all right, but first he’d enjoy the anticipation.

Delicately, inch by inch, he pulled the sheet down her sleeping body. She stirred once but did not wake. He had to bite his lip when he saw she wore only her snug white cotton panties. Oh, what those panties did to him! His cock was abruptly so hard it hurt. But he wasn’t ready to take her, not quite yet.

He drew four grey velvet ties from the pockets of his pyjama bottoms.

She had a high tester bed with carved mahogany posts marking the corners. Gently, patiently, he coaxed her hands and feet towards the poles and tied them securely. When her last ankle was bound, he nuzzled it with his nose, then licked her instep. Her bottom wriggled as though she were thinking of humping the mattress.

‘Storm,’ she murmured, still asleep.

That made him smile. At least she was dreaming of him; at least he ruled supreme in her subconscious. He licked her second foot until her plump little toes curled, then he clambered on to the mattress. When she still didn’t wake, he flicked on the bedside lamp.

Her body jerked. Her head came up and she yanked at her bonds. ‘What? Jesus, Storm.’

He let his body settle over hers, his limbs following the X that hers had formed, his cock prodding her vulva through complementary layers of silk and cotton.

‘Ohh,’ she groaned, and a sudden flare of heat warmed the crux of her thighs.

He rolled into her, a slow, sliding curve that pulled another groan from her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, because he knew women liked hearing men say that.

She didn’t ask what he was sorry for, just tipped back her head and rubbed it against his cheek. ‘Storm,’ she said. ‘Storm.’

It sounded like an invitation to him.

At first he remained as he was, letting her take in the feel of his body through all her skin. Her flesh was soft and warm beneath him — the curve of her back, the cushion of her buttocks. She smelt of nothing but herself and the mild chamomile shampoo she favoured. He dragged his face through the silky waves of hair and closed his eyes in an ecstasy of sensual bliss.

‘I have dreams about your hair,’ he whispered. ‘I dream that you’re sweeping it down my body and winding it around my cock.’ She squirmed beneath him, a restless undulation of her hips. Encouraged, he went on. ‘You put your hands around it and stroke me through the coils, soft and slow, over and over until I think I’ll die if you don’t let me come. You bring your mouth closer and breathe on me, warm and moist, right over the head. It brings me close. I push my hips at you but you won’t touch me, not yet. You bare the head with feather-light touches. You stare at me. You see how I tremble and swell. My fingers curl like claws into the sheets. You purse your lips and blow into the little hole. Oh, it feels incredible. I grit my teeth. I’m ready to scream. Then your tongue curls out and laps me, soft and wet. It makes me come, Abby, so hard.’

Abby gasped for air at the same time he did.

‘Would you do that for me tonight?’ he asked, low and dark. ‘Would you?’

‘If you like,’ she whispered back.

He smiled to feel the blush that heated her cheek. He kissed the warm, butter-soft skin and trailed his hands down her arms. ‘Good,’ he said, fighting to steady his own temperature. ‘I may need help recovering when I’m done with you.’

He stroked her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck. She shivered when he licked it, but he was already moving on, tickling her underarms, the side swell of her breasts, her spine. With lips and hands and the light brush of his torso he woke her skin to tingling awareness. He teased her with the silk of his pyjama bottoms, then slid them off and grazed her with the stiff, vibrating shaft of his cock. When he brushed it over her calves, she moaned out a wordless plea. Taking pity on both of them, he swept back up to the taut white cloth of her panties.

‘I need to remove these,’ he said. ‘They’re in my way.’