Книга - Her Valentine Fantasy

Her Valentine Fantasy
Nancy Warren


Tonight’s sinful dessert special… Valentine’s FantasyThe tasty dish from Benedict restaurant is everything Jessica Lafayette could want… or crave. And it’s not the dessert in front of her—it’s her waiter. A guy with dark, intense eyes that suggest he wants to slowly lick whipped cream off her skin. A smile so wicked it makes her insides lava-cake gooey. And a too-hot-to-handle body that was meant to be tasted…Yup, Sam The Waiter is better than chocolate.But what Jessica doesn’t know is that her one-night-waiter is actually Sam Benedict, Upscale Restaurateur. And that her little lie about being from out of town is going to turn into a Big Deal. Now Jessica is in deep hot chocolate… because her Valentine Fantasy is starting to look a lot like a red-hot reality!







Tonight’s sinful dessert special…Valentine’s Fantasy

The tasty dish from Benedict restaurant is everything Jessica Lafayette could want…or crave. And it’s not the dessert in front of her—it’s her waiter. A guy with dark, intense eyes that suggest he wants to slowly lick whipped cream off her skin. A smile so wicked it makes her insides lava-cake gooey. And a too-hot-to-handle body that was meant to be tasted…

Yup, Sam the waiter is better than chocolate.

But what Jessica doesn’t know is that her one-night-waiter is actually Sam Benedict, upscale restaurateur. And that her little lie about being from out of town is going to turn into a big deal. Now Jessica is in deep hot chocolate…because her Valentine Fantasy is starting to look a lot like a red-hot reality!






Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo)


For Dani Collins,

who was there from the beginning.


Dear Reader,

Have you ever had an embarrassing experience in front of a hot guy? Of course you have!

Recently, I was having dinner with my friend Dani Collins in Atlanta and we were so busy chatting that I accidentally slipped my hotel room key card into the bill folder instead of my credit card. The hot waiter came back and showed me my mistake. Embarrassing! Did he think I was inviting him up to my room? Luckily, I have been reading Cosmo magazine for enough years now that I called on my fun, fearless inner female and was able to laugh about the incident with the waiter and Dani. After he left, she said, “That would make a great opening for a story.”

I had to agree. As I began dreaming up story ideas, I came up with the idea of a single career girl facing down Valentine’s Day. Everywhere she looks there are sexy window displays and hearts and flowers. I dreamed up a romantic restaurant in Seattle, a city I love. And a chocolate fantasy dessert. Ah, fantasy.

Imagine the sexiest man walked straight out of your fantasies and into your life. Imagine he brought chocolate…

I hope you enjoy Her Valentine Fantasy. I love to hear from readers, you can connect with me anytime at http://www.nancywarren.net (http://www.nancywarren.net)

Happy reading!

Nancy Warren




Her Valentine Fantasy

Nancy Warren







Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Bestselling author Nancy Warren lives in the Pacific Northwest, where her hobbies include skiing, hiking and snowshoeing. She’s an author of more than thirty novels and novellas for Mills & Boon and has won numerous awards. Visit her website at www.nancywarren.net (http://www.nancywarren.net) for news on upcoming titles including the Last Bachelor Standing trilogy from Mills & Boon Blaze.




Books by Nancy Warren


MILLS & BOON BLAZE

19—LIVE A LITTLE!

47—WHISPER

57—BREATHLESS

85—BY THE BOOK

114—STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

“Tantalizing”

209—PRIVATE RELATIONS

275—INDULGE

389—FRENCH KISSING

452—UNDER THE INFLUENCE

502—POWER PLAY

526—TOO HOT TO HANDLE

553—MY FAKE FIANCÉE

569—THE EX FACTOR

597—FACE-OFF

706—JUST ONE NIGHT




CONTENTS


Chapter One (#u0a7ab390-e46f-5a51-bc6d-54d473b6d260)

Chapter Two (#u5bb013fa-1dd0-58b8-af7b-71cee5573015)

Chapter Three (#u47e60721-541c-5405-a5c7-ea5115b9a4c1)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

(#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


Sam Benedict was a professional voyeur. All good waiters were, he thought, as he watched the mini-drama at table 12. A waiter had to gauge the mood of a table, to be unobtrusive and efficient, so he didn’t get somebody pissing all over him for interrupting a conversation or pissing all over him for not showing up in time to take orders. Most customers expected waiters to read minds. Most good waiters did.

At least, that was Sam’s opinion. And probably the reason he never minded grabbing a shift if a waiter flaked. As the owner of Benedict, the hottest restaurant in Seattle, getting out front gave him a chance to interact with the foodies and have-to-be-trendies who kept him in business in the notoriously tough restaurant trade.

But the woman at table 12 would have caught his attention anywhere. She was gorgeous, in a blue slip of a dress that showed off her curves, but not in a hey, I’m hot, do me sort of way. More like a hint of sexiness that kept men wondering. Her hair was neither blond nor brown. It was an intriguing mix of the two. Her eyes were a clear gray with hints of blue and green that reminded him of the Pacific Northwest skies.

What was she doing with that dick? That girl and her date went together like ice cream and cod liver oil.

He figured these two for a first date. Probably met online. Ever since Benedict got voted Best Place for a Romantic Date in Seattle Magazine there had been more of them than ever. He’d seen plenty of dot-com first dates be wildly successful. He’d seen plenty more die on the vine. This one was dead before it started. Every time he approached their table the conversation was more stilted than the last time. The dude was completely self-involved and about as interesting as belly-button lint.

While the woman— Normally, he barely noticed the actual guests. They were numbers: seat one, table 14. If he thought of them individually it was in relation to their food order. Seat one was the halibut, two was the garlic allergy, that kind of thing. But this woman had caught his attention from the second she’d walked in, all long legs and big eyes that glanced around her with keen interest. He’d felt a buzz of energy coming from her. He’d never believed in sexual magnetism—thought it was a stupid term for horniness—but this woman truly drew him to her and he couldn’t resist any more than an iron filing could resist a super-magnet.

She’d started out lively and fun but had slowly given up as the bore kept talking over her.

He’d caught her eye a time or two and he’d resisted the urge to boot the loser out of there, sit down across from her and show her how a real date acted.

Except he wasn’t her date. He was her waiter for the evening and apart from singeing his eyeballs every time he looked at her, which he couldn’t help, he was the perfect waiter. Although he had to wonder.

Really? What were they thinking? Valentine’s Day was a week away. If he were ever asked his advice, based on his years as a professional voyeur, he’d say never try to start a relationship in early February. Too much pressure with the fourteenth looming like the Day of Doom.

The two seemed to be done with dinner, so he waited for the bore to finish another anecdote where he was the hero of his office, but before he could offer dessert the guy was pushing back his chair.

“Where’s the bathroom?” he asked Sam, who pointed the way. Guy already had his cell phone out before he’d gone three steps.

Which left Beauty alone with no bore. He stepped up to the table. How can you stand that douche? is what he wanted to say. What actually came out of his mouth was, “How are you enjoying your evening?” As he spoke, he picked up the bottle of wine and topped off her glass.

“The food is excellent,” she said leaving out any mention of her date. And who wouldn’t? “What did the chef put in the sauce over those scallops?”

He shook his head. “If he told me, he’d have to kill me.”

When she laughed he felt that energy again, drawing him in. “Well, please tell him how much I enjoyed them.” She glanced around, “The decor is amazing, too. Contemporary, but not cold and hard like some restaurants are. You know, all concrete and steel and glass?”

He nodded. Recalling how he’d said practically that very same thing to his designer.

“This place feels warm and relaxed while still modern.” She looked around again with an almost professional eye. “And it’s a good size for functions.”

He wondered if she was a restaurant critic, but he knew all the local ones. She could be from out of town, but nah, critics ordered a bunch of stuff and always tasted everything their companion ordered. No way she was a critic.

He should move on but no one in his section seemed to need him. He said, “First time here?”

“Yes.”

If he caught one of his staff getting too personal with a customer, he’d have some choice words to deliver. He couldn’t stop himself asking, “First date?”

Her eyes widened. “Yes. How did you know?”

Everything from body language to her guy running off to the men’s room with his cell phone in hand were pretty big clues. But he only said, “You get a feel for these things.”

She surveyed the room. “You mean you can tell what’s between people you’ve never even seen before from the way they behave in a restaurant?”

“Not always, but yeah, sometimes.” He glanced around himself. “Those two? At the table by the window, on your left.” He indicated his head so he wasn’t pointing. Waited until she had them in her sights and nodded. “They just got engaged. Watch her. See how she keeps lifting her left hand? Looks like Tourette’s but really she’s watching the ring on her finger. See how shiny it is? Barely worn.”

“Wow.” She watched for a moment and grinned. “Not Tourette’s exactly, although she’s doing a lot with her left hand. And I don’t think she’s left-handed.”

“You’re catching on.”

And while she was busy watching other customers, he had a chance to watch her. Her pretty face, those big eyes that were studying the other diners. She turned back.

“Okay, what’s the story on the older couple beside the wall of water?”

He followed her gaze. Saw a miserable-looking pair who were barely speaking to each other. Their clothes were inexpensive and it seemed as though they’d be much happier dining at home or at a family restaurant. He watched the body language for a moment.

“Wedding anniversary. Probably twenty-fifth or thirtieth. My guess is that somebody gave them a gift certificate here as an anniversary present when they’d have preferred a new set of towels. They don’t like fancy food, think fine dining is a waste of hard-earned money and, after all these years being married, don’t have much left to say to each other.”

“Depressing. But believable.”

“I’m only telling you what I guess. I could be wrong. Maybe normally they’re the happiest couple in town, but they just buried Grandma.”

“Your first story seems more real.” She looked around some more. “Okay, what about the foursome in the middle of the room. Older couple and a younger couple?”

He barely glanced at the table in question. “Easy. He’s a rich business guy, very successful. He and the wife spend six weeks a year golfing in Palm Springs. That’s their only daughter. The young guy is the boyfriend the parents don’t think is good enough.”

“Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?”

He grinned at her. “Nope. They’re regulars.”

She laughed, enjoying his teasing.

He said, “You’re not the only one not having the greatest evening.”

She ran a finger around the stem of her wineglass, which he found ridiculously sexy. “I should have made it a coffee. Dinner’s too much of a commitment for a first date.”

“I agree. I always go with the coffee.”

She looked up. “Oh, are you—” Then she stopped herself.

“Single?” He finished her question for her in the direction he hoped it had been headed. “Yeah. I am.”

He wanted to say something more. Ask her out?

And then the douche returned. Since Sam was hanging around the table, he said, “Allow me to tempt you with Chef’s special dessert tonight. He’s calling it Valentine Fantasy. It’s made with Valrhona chocolate and fresh cream and a hint of raspberry. He says it tastes like sex.” Because he couldn’t help himself—it was that iron filing thing again—he caught her eye when he said that and experienced a sudden, hot surge of lust.

She held his gaze and he instinctively knew she was feeling the sizzle, too. Her voice was low and sexy. “I’ve always thought that if sex had a flavor it would be chocolate.”

And in that second a vision of her, naked and wet while he teased her with chocolate, took him so strongly he stopped breathing.

He wasn’t supposed to crush on the customers, he reminded himself as he took their orders, the Fantasy for her, and an overpriced crème brûlée that they kept on the menu for dickheads like her date.

* * *

Oh, no, Sam thought when he next swung out of the kitchen, the guy at table 12 was pulling out his smartphone again. Seriously?

Dude, no.

Not the fake text thing, he begged silently. Don’t do this to that sweet, sexy woman. But sure enough, bad first-date guy made a pantomime of shock, then distress. Sam could see his lips moving, saying something like, “Emergency, gotta go.” He practically leaped from his seat, putting his hand up to his ear, thumb and baby finger extended in an I’ll call you gesture. And then he charged out of the restaurant like his ass was on fire.

Sam would have bet his life savings that bad first date had set up the fake emergency when he was in the john. Classy.

As much he was glad to see the back of the guy, Sam saw two problems with his fast exit. First, he’d left a gorgeous, hot chick sitting by herself in a busy restaurant on a Friday night before she’d got to dessert. Second, he’d ditched her with the bill.

Sam hoped he was as nice as the next guy, but he was running a business. He turned tail and grabbed a server’s assistant. “Get the bill prepared for table 12 right away. But don’t put the desserts on it.” He finished delivering meals to table 3 and then grabbed the bill, already slipped into one of the black folders with the stylized B logo on the front and immediately walked to table 12.

“Will he be back?” he asked the lone woman at the table.

“God, I hope not.” She acted as if her date running out on her hadn’t bothered her at all, but he swore he could detect a hint of hurt in the depths of her clear gray eyes.

“Still want your dessert?”

She shook her head. Then she glanced at where her date had been sitting and Sam saw the moment she registered that he’d stiffed her for dinner. With a small sigh, she said, “I’ll just take the bill.”

He dropped the folder on the table, then, because it was his restaurant and what the hell, said, “We keep a car and driver. Some of our regulars like the service. He’d be happy to drive you home.”

She smiled her gratitude and again he had that odd feeling, as though there was more between them than a few hot glances and a little chitchat while he’d waited her table. “Thanks. But I’m staying locally.”

“No problem. Take your time.” He wanted to touch her, maybe brush his fingers over her shoulder to let her know she was awesome and amazing and deserved better. In fact, he wanted a lot more. Toyed with the idea of asking if he could see her, then figured he’d come across as a bigger knob than the one who’d left five minutes ago.

He did the smart thing. He went back to the kitchen where the usual organized chaos prevailed.

When he returned, the woman at table 12 was gone. He picked up the folder and flipped it open, assuming there’d be cash inside.

There wasn’t.

Nor was there a credit card.

In the space where a credit card should have been was a hotel room keycard.

She didn’t seem like the dine-and-dash type. And, while she wouldn’t be the first female customer who ever propositioned him, he doubted the room card was anything but the slipup of a distressed woman who got dumped on her first date. More likely, she’d meant to put a credit card down and, well, who knew what she’d been thinking?

All he knew was, he needed to get paid, and she needed to get into her hotel room.

He gazed toward the front door but she’d already left. He stood for a moment, thinking, then ran into the back and told Barney, the most efficient waiter he had, to take over his few remaining tables.

Eloise, one of the sous chefs, was adding the spun-sugar flourish onto the forgotten Valentine Fantasy. She drizzled the heart-shaped chocolate with raspberry reduction. On impulse, Sam said, “Box that up, will you? She’s taking dessert to go.”

Seconds later, he headed for the door out onto the street.

“Hey, Sam, you coming back?” Chef yelled.

He turned. Thought of that sweet sexy woman currently heading back to her hotel without a keycard or a date. He had no idea what was going to happen. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing.

But he recalled the instant connection they’d felt. Said, “If I’m not back, close up, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

And he jogged out onto the street.

He knew from the keycard that table 12 was staying at a trendy boutique hotel in the next block and he headed in that direction. The evening was cold and he hadn’t bothered to grab a coat, so he walked swiftly, the wet streets and dripping trees telling him that it had only recently stopped raining.

He saw a woman he thought was table 12, seat two head into the hotel and took off running. He pushed through the glass doors, jogged through the lobby and caught up with her as she pushed the elevator button.

“Hi,” he said.

She glanced around. Took a second to place him and then said with surprise, “Hi.”

He produced the folder and opened it to show her the keycard. “You gave me your keycard instead of your credit card.”

A quick blush suffused her cheeks and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I just—I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry. Oh, I already said that.” She opened her small clutch as the elevator doors opened. Then she looked at him, embarrassment still warming her cheeks. “I’ve got cash upstairs. I hate to take you more out of your way, but I don’t want to make the walk of shame back to the restaurant with my credit card. I was— No man’s ever dumped me in the middle of a date before.”

He liked her. There was honesty and humor in her gaze. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.” They stepped inside the elevator and the doors closed. They were the only two riding up. He could smell her light fragrance, feel the energy between them. He said, “Not that it’s any of my business, but that guy was a total dick.”

She snorted with sudden laughter. “I know! I had no idea he’d be so full of himself. But it’s February and—”

“Valentine’s Day is coming,” he finished for her. “I know.”

They rode up fourteen floors. She said, “I hope this hasn’t inconvenienced you too much.”

“Not really.” He could see she felt bad enough. “I got somebody else to cover my tables.”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. She preceded him into the hall. He followed her to her room and then handed her the keycard.

“Thanks.”

Then he produced the small, square bakery box.

“What’s in there? Handcuffs so you can take me in?”

She gazed at him over the box and he felt again that strong, sizzling sense of connection. He wished she hadn’t put the idea of handcuffs into his head. Now he pictured her cuffed to the bed while he pleasured her to the edge of madness.

Her lips tilted in a smile so sensual it melted him. He was almost overwhelmed by the urge to kiss her.

He stepped closer. “I’ve brought you your Valentine Fantasy.”




CHAPTER TWO


Jessica Lafayette opened her door with the keycard the hot waiter handed her, his last words still echoing between them. Her Valentine Fantasy? Could this horrible night be about to turn around?

“Thanks,” she said, holding the door open so he could enter. “I’ll get your cash.” Which left her with the dilemma of wanting to give him a very generous tip for causing him so much trouble and not wanting to embarrass either of them.

“Don’t worry about it now,” he said. “Enjoy your dessert.” Which meant he was planning to stay for a while.

Perfect.

She realized she didn’t even know his name. Benedict wasn’t one of those Hi, my name is Darrell and I’ll be your server tonight kind of places. It was much too upscale for that. Which meant she didn’t know the name of the guy she was inviting into her hotel room.

Slut! a voice in her head screamed.

Hell, yeah! her inner rebel cried.

Because clearly, following the rules hadn’t worked for her sex life. She’d been following rules so long she’d forgotten the thrill of bending them, even snapping a few now and then. She’d been serious, smart and hardworking all her life. She was the type of friend who never blabbed secrets or forgot birthdays. Which meant that she had a good degree, a great career, was beloved of her friends. But, while she’d been working her ass off in her job as an event planner and listening to her friends bitch about guys, she’d dated men who were too much like her. They put most of their energies into their careers, their sports and their buddies.

She’d ended up with a completely shitty love life.

Which is why, when another dateless New Year’s Eve came around, and her BFF Morgan asked her about her New Year’s resolution, she hastily revised her answer from the planned “increase ab workout to three times a week and lose an inch around my hips” to a slightly tipsy “have some seriously hot sex with a gorgeous guy.”

“It’s going to take you all year to get a decent shag?” Morgan demanded so loud everyone in the vicinity turned. Put vodka inside Morgan and the effect was the same as putting a megaphone in front of her mouth.

“No,” she whispered back, hoping her friend would take the hint. “I’ll do it by—” her mind searched for an obvious have-great-sex-by date “—by Valentine’s Day.”

“Way to put it out to the universe! Hot sex by V. Day. You go!” Morgan bellowed.

And, being the follow-the-rules-type of girl, once the hangover had passed, she signed up on two internet dating sites plus tried to spend fewer nights at the office and get out more socially. In the five weeks since she’d begun, her tally of great sex was exactly zero.

Tonight’s date was pretty typical of her luck so far—a guy on the rise in banking. She’d realized within three minutes that the only way he’d get her naked was if he bored the pants off her.

The waiter, however, was a different story. Everything about him, from the dark brown of his eyes to the wave in his slightly too long hair, to the way he moved, with smooth confidence, got her girl parts humming.

There were moments, when he was describing the chef’s special creations for the evening, that his deep, sexy voice might have been saying, “The first fresh asparagus of the season is lightly steamed and drizzled in basil-infused olive oil,” but what she heard was, I want to take you up against that wall and rub basil-infused olive oil over your body and then lick it all off.

And right then she decided that her problem was that she kept dating workaholic bores. She should totally be dating waiters and ski instructors and golf pros, guys who worked to live rather than lived to work.

It was as if fate, the universe, her fairy godmother or some combination of the three, had offered her a guy who had so much sexual confidence that it was making her light-headed. And who obviously wasn’t too concerned about work, since he’d blown off the rest of his night’s work so easily.

Perfecter and perfecter.

“Would you like your Valentine Fantasy now?” he asked in that low, sexy voice that made her inner thighs quiver.

She didn’t even know his name.

Sex with a stranger. Was that her fantasy?

Maybe. She thought everything about this man and this night was a fantasy. And the thing with fantasies was, they only worked if you totally let yourself fall into them.

She nodded.

The door shut behind them with a click. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his heat, see that his eyelashes were thick and curled. He was tall, his shoulders broad, the black shirt and pants that she supposed were his uniform made him look like an outlaw.

He smelled like chocolate. She remembered that foolish remark she’d made about thinking if sex had a flavor it would be chocolate. She’d been half-joking at the time, but he really did smell like the best, darkest, richest, most decadent chocolate.

She opened her lips, moistened them with her tongue and watched him stare at her mouth as though mesmerized.

Then he flipped open the box and she realized it wasn’t him who smelled like chocolate. It was the dessert. The glorious over-the-top, heart-shaped, raspberry-drizzled, sparkly fantasy of a dessert.

“That is probably the prettiest dessert I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll tell our pastry chef,” he said, sounding proud. She thought it was cool that a waiter took such pride in his place of work.

There was a tiny pause. She could grab a wad of cash and get rid of him, or she could work on that New Year’s resolution with a gorgeous stranger.

“Would you like to share it with me?” she asked.

“I’d like to share a lot of things with you,” he said, confirming her suspicion that he was as into her as she was into him. Excitement fluttered in her belly. She was so glad she’d packed a few condoms in her makeup bag just in case.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, realizing he’d been on his feet for hours. She indicated the sofa that sat in front of the window.

The suite contained a convenience kitchen and she opened the fridge and removed the bottle of champagne the client had given her today as a small thank-you at the end of the trade show and conference she’d organized. Seemed like the perfect time to open the bubbly.

She grabbed a couple of wineglasses from the glass-fronted cabinet above the sink and a couple of forks from the small cutlery drawer. She passed him the bottle. “Would you?”

“Absolutely.”

She scooted down beside him and he opened the bottle with the most professional of slight pops, no cork banging into the ceiling and champagne foaming on the carpet. He poured wine into two glasses and handed her one.

The wine was pale gold and bubbles chased each other in the depths. Raising his glass in a toast, he said, “To unexpected pleasures.”

His words were casual enough that he could be referring to the wine, but the way he looked at her suggested he was taking pleasure in being there. With her.

The word pleasures had her blood acting like champagne in her veins. She felt light, effervescent. They both sipped and then she reached for the dessert box.

There were four white plates in the cupboard but she was pretty sure she’d make a mess of that pretty dessert if she tried to divide it and put it on plates. She wasn’t the handiest woman in the kitchen. Besides, there was something incredibly intimate about sharing. She left it in the box.

She put her fork into the soft chocolate, taking the very bottom tip of the heart. He watched as she tasted it. “Oh,” she moaned as the flavors burst in her mouth, the smoothest, most sinful chocolate, the sweet tartness of raspberry and hints of almond and something else she couldn’t name.

“Try it,” she said, aware that he was watching her the way she’d been eyeing the chocolate creation.

“Okay,” he said, and leaned forward. He lifted a hand and gently wiped a speck of chocolate from her lower lip. Just the graze of his finger pad on her sensitive skin made her shiver. Holding her gaze, he put his finger into his mouth and sucked off the chocolate.

A funny sound came out of her mouth, like a strangled moan and, correctly interpreting the sound to mean she wanted more, much, much more, he leaned right over the box and kissed her.

The feel of his mouth on hers was electric. His lips were warm and firm and commanding in the way he simply took over her mouth.

Which was absolutely fine with her. Her lips opened and his tongue slipped in, tasting her, teasing her, overwhelming her with the flavors of chocolate, champagne and hot, sexy man. She pressed closer, wrapping her free hand around his neck so she could play in the unruly, thick hair that fascinated her.

They kissed for a long time, tongues tangling, breath mingling, hearts thumping. At least hers was. She felt excitement build inside her, strong and fast. And yet there was no hurry. She loved that he seemed content to kiss her until the end of time, not use a kiss as a quick signal that he was about to rip her clothes off and get right to the sex part as her last boyfriend had done.

He pulled back at last and she saw that his eyes had a stunned expression in them, which she was fairly certain would be matched in her own eyes.

“Wow,” she said shakily. “You are a great kisser.” Best kisser in the world, actually. Best kisser since the mouth had been invented.

His grin was intimate, secret. “The kiss tells everything, don’t you think?”

She nodded even though she wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at.

He reached out and took the fork from her hand, pushed a generous bite of Fantasy onto it and raised the fork to her lips. Oh, God, he was feeding her, and making it seem like foreplay, which she supposed it was. As her mouth opened to accept the rich dessert, he said, “I think if the kiss strikes sparks, you know the sex will be amazing.”

Again that sound came out of her throat, not a purr, not a growl, not a moan—well, maybe a moan—but it all lumped together in an incoherent cave-person sound. He must have correctly interpreted the sound as a “yes, please, I wantwantwant, needneedneed, some completely amazing sex.”

And she wanted it, needed it, now.

Gently, she took the fork out of his hand and put the Fantasy-in-a box on the table. Then she closed the distance between them. This time, she did the kissing. She brushed her lips gently over his, then pressed against him, taking the kiss deep, deeper.

At the same time, her hands were busy, exploring the contours of a seriously buff chest, abs that felt rock hard. He wrapped strong arms around her and began doing some exploring of his own. She could hear traffic sounds from way, way down below where, amazingly, the real world still carried on. But up here there was no sound but their breathing, growing more heated by the minute.

The next sound she heard was her zipper sliding stealthily down her back. How glad she was that she’d chosen to wear her sexiest lingerie tonight, hoping her date would rock her world. Wearing something delectable against her skin made her feel sexy.

The irony was not lost on her that she’d dressed for a man who’d blown her off on their first date and she was clearly about to sleep with this man who hadn’t even asked her for a date.

She considered asking him his name, but one of her dark, secret fantasies had always been to make love with a stranger. No one but her battery-powered rabbit knew how many times she’d fantasized about having sex with a man who showed up one day, dark and sexy and perhaps a little dangerous, who drenched her in passion, took her to places she’d never imagined possible. He wasn’t part of her past, and there was no future beyond her orgasm—he was only here in this present moment to give her pleasure.

In her wildest dreams she’d never imagined living out her fantasy.

It seemed she was about to do exactly that.

She did know a bit about who he was, of course. He was an excellent waiter at one of the top restaurants in Seattle. Sure, he could still turn out to moonlight as a serial killer, but all her instincts about people–and they were pretty good—told her she could trust him.

She leaned forward so the blue fabric slipped off her shoulders and slid to her waist.

The sound he made was satisfyingly incoherent. He reached out and traced the outline of her breasts through the ecru lace of her bra. Her nipples ached for his touch and she could feel them acting as pushy as they knew how, thrusting forward, begging for attention.

But he didn’t rush there. Not yet. He continued his slow exploration of her body while she began struggling with the buttons of his black dress shirt, fumbling in her need to see him, touch him, taste him.

When at last she had his shirt open she understood her own haste. The man was gorgeous. Tanned skin that suggested he loved the outdoors, muscles that confirmed he was athletic. He helped her pull the shirt all the way off and she wondered if carrying heavy trays of food and drink had built up his arms like that. She suspected other, more vigorous pursuits.

Other than the perfect thatch of chest hair that continued in a coy line to disappear into his pants, he had no distinguishing marks. No scars, no tattoos, no piercings.

She placed her open mouth on the hot skin of his chest and felt the strong pound of his heart against her lips. While she was over there, she tackled his belt buckle. He kicked off his shoes and dealt with his socks while she worked his zipper carefully over an impressive package.

He cupped his hands over hers for a moment and held her in place for a moment. His dark eyes held her gaze. “Are you sure about this?”

She squeezed gently. “I’ve never been so sure about anything,” she whispered.




CHAPTER THREE


Sam didn’t do casual sex anymore. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hookup. But he hadn’t had a girlfriend in a while, either. He and Chantale, the temperamental chef he’d worked with at his last restaurant, before he went out on his own, had ended when she threw a chef’s knife at him. She claimed she’d aimed to sink her deboning knife into the side of beef hanging in the walk-in fridge, but the homicidal look in her eye had suggested to him that backing slowly out of that relationship might be a healthy choice.

Luckily, she’d soon fallen for a baker at Pike Place Market and the two were now settled happily, and distantly, in her native Toulouse.

As his hands touched silky warm skin and he heard the sighs of an aroused woman, he realized he hadn’t had sex in almost three months. He’d been crazy busy with the restaurant, and to clear his head and stay in shape, he liked backcountry skiing in the winter and biking the rest of the year. Which hadn’t left him a lot of time for women.

Maybe it was a buildup of being horny, but he never remembered wanting a woman as much as he wanted this one. She was funny and serious at the same time, sweet and sexy in one package. Gorgeous and a little insecure, an absolutely packed pantry of opposites.

And no one knew better than a restaurateur how amazing a dish turned out when filled with complementary opposites. So, he let this sweet and spicy woman take her bold and timid hold of him. She finished with the zipper, reached in and gripped him.

They both gasped. If she’d been only bold, he might have been turned off. No man liked having his meat handled the way a butcher handled sausage. And if she’d been too timid he’d have felt that maybe she was too far out of her comfort zone and he’d feel bad, maybe slow things down. But she was both bold and timid, which was so arousing that he couldn’t have stopped. Not on his own. If she pulled her hand out of his pants and said she’d changed her mind, then okay. No harm, no foul.

But if she wanted to keep exploring, to slide her sweet, sexy hand up and down like that, he wasn’t the man to stop her.

Except that if he didn’t, this was all going to be over way too fast.

So he took her wrist in a gentle grip, pulled her slowly away and kissed her palm. When she looked at him in inquiry he had to be honest. “You’re doing me in,” he whispered. “I want to last a long time for you.”

Bold and timid danced back and forth in her gaze and finally bold won. She said, “Who says there’s only going to be one time?”

He grinned at her, “Oh, you are my kind of woman.”





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