Gift Wrapped (6 page)

Dinner. Movie.
Sex.

She froze two steps from the kitchen, clutching her stomach as a small riot erupted. Just nerves. Nothing a quick run down the list wouldn’t cure. Solid, organized plans solved everything. Well, almost everything.

So. Starting at the top. She had floss and a travel-size toothbrush in her purse. Breath mints if she didn’t have a chance to hit the bathroom again before jumping all over him. She’d shaved her legs this morning. Other parts too, so no worries there. Condoms, check. He’d already demonstrated his ability to get her off—hallelujah on that count—and his equipment was above adequate in the size department, but not so huge that she’d require medical attention afterward.

Then came the intangible element with the glowing checkmark—she felt comfortable around Davis. More at ease than she’d ever been with Liam, whom she’d dated for over a year. Based on that fact alone, tonight would be fantastic. Stomach riot quelled.

“Smells amazing,” she said, rounding the corner into the kitchen.

“Hey, there you are.” He smiled at her while checking the contents of a baking dish in the oven. “Thought you got lost in my mansion.”

“I like your house, what I’ve seen of it so far.”

“Yeah?” He pushed the pan back into place and closed the oven door. “Want the full tour while we wait for this to finish up?”

“How much time do we have?” More fluttering in her belly. This time, straight-up anticipation about getting naked in one of those rooms down the hall. Might as well go big since she wasn’t going home. She joined him by the stove, slid her palms over the hard wall of abs covered by a snug black t-shirt, then around his waist to his very squeezable butt.

Hint taken. He copied her move—the last part, anyway—and pulled her tight against his body. Either he had a flashlight in his front pocket or he was equally eager to move things down the hall.

How would they do it? Rip each other’s clothes off, or take it slow? Lights on, or off? Would he bend her over the bed and fuck her hard from behind, or work his way up her body with a nice detour in the middle before sliding inside her, face-to-face?

He groaned and put a few inches between them. “No tour until after dinner. If I’m reading those gorgeous eyes of yours correctly, we definitely don’t have enough time for me to show you my bedroom.” Before she could pout in protest, he yanked her back to his chest. “But we have time for this…” His lips connected with hers. Soft and warm, yet unyielding in their demand.

She melted against him, opening for him as she tilted her head. Full access granted, happily.

His hands slid up her back. Threaded into her hair and cupped the back of her head, holding her exactly where he wanted.

As if she’d want to move with his tongue stroking inside her mouth. Tasting her, teasing her with skills that could—and hopefully would—be applied elsewhere later. God, she wanted that. Even bad oral beat going without, but she’d bet her Christmas commission check that having Davis’s face between her legs would end in the best orgasm she’d ever had. His kisses alone made her whole body tingle. His tongue sliding up and down her pussy, swirling around her clit…

“Fuck, Brinn.” He broke the kiss but kept their lips close enough to brush while he spoke. “You’re making me crazy.”

“I’m sorry?”

He chuckled. “You’re not, and I sure as hell don’t want you to be.”

“Good, because I’m really not. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed kissing somebody this much.” A dumb thing to say, maybe, but oh well. Being with him loosened her lips in more ways than one.

He reached for one of her hands and inserted it between them, cupping it over the impressive bulge in his jeans. “And I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard from kissing somebody.”

“That’s…wow.” Worth skipping dinner for if she didn’t fear passing out from low blood sugar while they were getting busy. “I guess I didn’t need to worry about your reloading time after all.”

“Saying ‘I told you so’ isn’t nearly as satisfying as proving it to you would be.”

Oh, did she want him to prove it. So, so much.

“You keep looking at me that way and I’m going to make you wait a lot longer than the ten minutes until the chicken’s done to eat.”

Of course her stomach chose this precise moment to make its emptiness—and crankiness at such—known.

He laughed while smacking her ass. “Memo received. Now step out of my greedy reach so I can focus on serving you dinner.”

* * * * *

Brinn could have licked the plate clean, the meal was that good. If Davis would hurry up and finish his extra-large portion, she’d skip straight to licking the chef instead.

He forked the last bite of chicken into his mouth. God, his mouth. His jaw. His tongue as it swept across his lips, chasing stray crumbs. Chewing wasn’t supposed to be sexy. Watching a man eat dinner had never caused heat to gather between her legs, or given her the urge to roll her hips so the seam of her jeans would rub her clit. She’d been on edge since their incredible pre-dinner kiss.

Sitting on opposite ends of the black leather couch, with his legs encasing hers, had
not
helped to settle things down in her southern region. Davis wasn’t merely hot, handsome and hunky, he excelled at intelligent conversation. He laughed easily—a sound that zinged through her system, hitting all the important places. He made her laugh too.

Plus, the chef thing. That was so totally hot. She hadn’t known him long, but he had “great catch” written all over him. What made a guy like this so averse to being caught?

The fish in question leaned forward and took the plate from her lap, stacked his on top and put them on the floor beside the couch. “Happy stomach?”

“Very. Do you always cook stuff like that for yourself?”

“Not as much as I’d like. Most evenings I’m at the restaurant, cooking for other people. I eat there, and it’s good, but not the same as making exactly what I want, and eating it in the peace and quiet of my home.” He reached out, caught her chin and stroked his thumb over her bottom lip. “Also, the company tonight sure beats what I’m used to.”

The smile in his eyes seemed genuine. With everything he had going for him, though, if he dined alone—anytime or any place—it must be by choice. Much as she wanted to ask him why, he hadn’t invited her over to have a heart-to-heart or to be psychoanalyzed.

And she hadn’t come over to get attached, something she needed to remember, rather than having these swoony thoughts. “Sounds like we work some similar hours. I pull the noon to nine-thirty shift every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. I usually grab something in the food court those days. I eat at home the other days, though never this well.”

“You don’t like to cook?” he asked, letting his fingers slide from her face as he leaned back again.

“Oh, I love the
idea
of cooking. I love food and I’m forever bookmarking recipes and stocking my cupboards with ingredients that I have no real clue what to do with. Seriously, what the heck am I supposed to do with ‘cream of tartar’? It’s not even cream.” She forced her flapping hands back to her lap. “Anyway, when it comes to the actual process of making the food…”

After a few beats of hanging silence, Davis prompted her by squeezing her legs between his.

“Let’s just say I have an affinity for creating Cajun dishes—from every recipe.”

“Ah.” He winked. “You burn stuff.”

“
I
don’t burn anything. I just haven’t met the oven of my dreams yet.”

Dimples, he had them. Not a feature she usually cared for on a man. Too boyish. On Davis, they didn’t look the least bit juvenile—in fact, they were panty-melting hot.

He leaned forward and curled his hand over her leg, very high on her thigh. “Cooking is like sex. You don’t have to have the best equipment to get great results—it’s all about timing and execution.”

“If I didn’t already know better, I’d think you were putting me on notice that you have a small saucepan, not an oversize stock pot.”

He grinned and shook his head. “Come on, naughty girl.” He grabbed her hands and hauled her to her feet. “I’m going to teach you how to make dessert.”

“Unless it’s Oreos and a glass of milk or scooping ice cream into a dish, it’s not going to work.” The warning fell on deaf ears as he pulled her along behind him. “Seriously, I even fail at instant Jell-O.”

He settled her butt against the breakfast bar once again. “How do you blame your oven for the Jell-O?”

Crap. Totally caught on that one. Figured. He’d been teasing her about her flubs since they met in the store.

Inside the cage of his arms, sparks ping-ponged between them. He leaned in and brushed his lips over the shell of her ear. “No Jell-O tonight. No cookies or ice cream either.”

She shivered, recalling his earlier words.
I’m having you for dessert.
Now that was a cooking lesson she could get behind. Or in front of. However he wanted to deliver it.

“You’re going to make pudding,” he said, then backed away, grinning. The jerk, tormenting her with his hard body, soft lips and damn sexy voice.

She tugged at the bottom of her shirt, straightening it when she’d far rather be pulling it off. “The only way I can successfully ‘make’ pudding is by peeling lids from plastic containers.”

His grin stayed firmly in place as he opened cupboards and the refrigerator. One by one, ingredients appeared in a lineup beside her. Milk, eggs, butter, sugar, salt, vanilla, cocoa powder—a fancy kind, not the cheapie, no-name stuff she’d bought the time she attempted to make brownies.

“That’s a lot of ingredients. My way of making pudding is easier. Faster too.”

One very masculine eyebrow rose over serious, hazel eyes. “That packaged shit isn’t pudding.”

“Always tastes like pudding to me.”

“It won’t after tonight. You’ll never go back after having homemade.”

“You’re really going to make me do this?” She sighed in semi-defeat, picked up an unmarked jar and waved it, giving it a double take when the powder didn’t budge. “I don’t even know what this is—all the white powders look the same to me.”

Charming crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. “They’re not. That one’s cornstarch.”

“Fine.” She huffed while returning the cornstarch to the counter. “I hope you enjoy Cajun-style pudding, because I’ve never successfully made any other kind, not even from a box that says ‘just add milk.’”

“There’s a first time for everything, babe.” He kissed her below her ear, in the shiver zone. “Are you ready for it?”

* * *

“What makes you so sure this time will be different?”

Wasn’t that a hell of a good question. This time
was
different—for him. He’d had women over for a meal and after-dinner fun, but he’d never offered to share his kitchen with any of them. Not offered, insisted.

Brinn didn’t want a cooking lesson, she wanted a tour of the house that started and ended with his bedroom. Yet here he was, delaying what would undoubtedly be a night of phenomenal sex…to make pudding. Had to be a side effect of the usual Christmas bullshit stress. Nothing more.

He pushed the serious stuff to the back and focused on his incredibly sexy student. “First, you need a big pot.”

“Oh, so the size of the equipment
does
matter.”

“Sometimes bigger is better, yeah.” He grinned while reaching into a lower cupboard.

She giggled as he put a long-handled heavyweight on the counter beside her. Pretty, a dirty mind and a sense of humor. All good.

“This is nice and thick.” She slid her fist back and forth along the handle, making his cock throb jealously. “Are you going to show me how to use it?”

“If you stop doing things like that to distract me, yes.”

“I make no promises.”

“Guess I’ll have to keep you busy following my directions.”

She pressed her delectable tits against his chest. “Yes, please, master chef—tell me
exactly
what you want me to do.”

That list would take all night. His brain was overflowing with things he wanted to do with Brinn. X-rated things that would make her moan his name. Fun things to make her blush and laugh. Hell, they might still be tackling his list come New Year’s Day. A week with Brinn. Not part of his original plan when he’d invited her over, but not the worst idea he’d had. He could do a week without getting too involved. But could she?

Probably not, unfortunately.

Back to tonight. “Measuring cups and spoons are in the drawer beside the fridge. So’s the big whisk, a wooden spoon and a rubber spatula.”

“Is the wooden spoon for stirring, or for punishment when I screw up your fancy pudding?”

And he’d just mentally added another item to his do-to-Brinn list. He delivered a firm smack to her sexy ass as an interim measure. “Now I’m half tempted to lead you astray during your lesson.”

“Only half?”

He groaned when she snuck her hand down the front of his jeans and curled her fingers around his cock. “Sixty percent. And rapidly rising.”

“I’ll say.” She withdrew her hand, winked, then crossed to the other counter, as directed. “Oh wow,” she said, as she pulled the chunky silver handle. “Look at your cute drawer dividers.” She tossed a cheeky smile over her shoulder. “Are they all like this?” She moved along the counter, opening and closing the short row of drawers and cupboards, getting more of a kick with each one. “I didn’t know real people lived this way. I feel like I’m in an Ikea showroom.”

“I like things organized.” Compartmentalized would be a more accurate word. Sexy times in one box, buddies in another, colleagues in a third, and things that fuck up general happiness—aka, romantic or familial relationships—in an airtight, padlocked safe.

Apparently satisfied with her exploration of his storage solutions, she plunked the requested utensils in front of him, save the one in her hand. That, she twirled between her palms while bending over the end of the prep surface. “You have a very large whisk.” Her eyes danced as she surveyed the sturdy, metal wires. “I’m not sure I can handle it.”