tiny breaths as she lost her gaze in the pool of those gold-flecked eyes. Deep enough to drown a woman. Even looking at him was divine, and the feel of his hard body crushed under hers was even better.
Rob tangled one hand into her hair, not even knowing himself what he was going to do next. There was something about this woman that confused him, intoxicated him. Took away his ability to think clearly. In the end, without thinking at all, he pulled her mouth down to meet his.
He kissed her softly at first, giving her the chance to pull away – part of him even hoping she would. When it became clear from the way her body moulded to him like running water that she was going nowhere, the contact deepened. Mouths parted, his tongue touched hers, his teeth sweetly nipped her lower lip. One hand held her head firmly to his while the other roamed expertly over the contours of her body – her neck, shoulders, down to the small of her back, caressing and stroking with fingers that clearly knew their way around a woman.
Leah was thinking no more clearly than him. Her body was filling with warmth; a thousand nerve endings tingling as his hands and lips dominated her senses. She could feel his arousal pressing into her, and she slid shamelessly around on top of him, wriggling her body into position until the hard denim-clad bulge hit just the right point to make her gasp. She slipped a hand under his T-shirt, tracing the smooth lines of his pectorals, the silky trail of hair, the peak of his nipples. Jesus. What a body. She wanted to pull that jersey away, to look at him and lick him and kiss him all over.
As fast as it started, it ended. Suddenly, he pulled her face away, using the tangle of her hair to hold her back, ignoring her small pleas and moves to return to his kiss. He looked up at her confused expression with a big, dazzling grin, eyes wicked and teeth gleaming white.
God, she was magnificent, he thought as he gazed at her. Lips swollen from kissing him back so hard. Eyes wild with desire. Her body bucking and rubbing like she was riding a rodeo horse; her fingers already instinctively seeking out the parts of his body that were the most sensitive. Those lush breasts straining to escape. He was so turned on his whole being was thrumming. And still he held her back. He had a point to make, and Rob Cavelli was very good at making his point.
“As the last kiss disappointed you so much, d’you think you’ll remember that one?” he said, smiling as her lust-clouded eyes started to clear. The amber settled from tigress to kitten, and she sighed as she realised she’d been played.
“Yes. ’Til I’m 100 and senile,” she said breathlessly. “Point taken. But why did you stop? You seemed to be enjoying it as well.”
“Of course I was. But you might regret it later,” he said, his voice gravel. “Your judgement doesn’t exactly seem to be working right now. And because this is how babies are made, and I’m sure neither of wants that for Christmas. And because I’m hungry. For food.”
Even as he said it, he knew he was lying. Making excuses. He was nothing but a coward, pretending to protect her, when in reality it was himself he was worried about. Sex with this woman would blow his mind, he already knew it would. And that would be very unsafe sex…in all kinds of ways. He was buying time. Trying to get his body to cool down so his mind could take control. He hadn’t lived like a monk since Meredith, but no woman had ever come close to making him feel like this. It was crazy, and he’d already been too crazy. He lived there for a long time after he lost Meredith, and he never wanted to return.
He kept his face closed, guarded, making his expression as light as his tone. Leah smiled at him, and knew he was stalling. Decided, he knew, to go along with it. Good girl.
“Food.” she murmured, sitting up so she was straddling him. She tidied her hair back into its pony tail and gazed ahead, deep in thought. From this angle he could see the firm buds of her nipples thrusting proudly forwards, her body still bearing the remnants of her arousal. Even the thought of it made him twitch in the pants department, and he firmed up against her again, so hard there was no hiding it. She wriggled against it, very deliberately, as she pretended to ponder dinner plans.
“Well, if you’re sure it’s food you’re after, I’m your girl. You happen to be in the company of one of the finest chefs in London – or at least on one street in London. I’ll go and see what’s in the kitchen…” she said, and nimbly climbed off him. He felt cold as soon as she’d gone, already missing the soft press of her body.
She looked down, grinning at the sight of his distressed groin.
“You just lie there and think about what you’re missing.” she said, and swayed out of the room, rounded butt sashaying in those impossibly snug leggings.
Oh God, he thought. I may never walk again.
***
“This is good,” he said, dipping freshly baked bread into home-made French onion soup. “Really good. How did you manage it?”
In just a few hours Leah had filled the cottage with the scents of a home; raiding cupboards, plugging in appliances, and even figuring out how to use the Aga range he’d been using as a butt-warmer for several years now. It had been a great butt-warmer, but he’d never used it to cook.
Leah grinned at him. Few things pleased her more than people enjoying her food, and this particular man enjoying it gave her a bad case of the warm and fuzzies. Even watching him eat was sensual, she thought, the way his face reacted to the flavours, the pure pleasure of the taste.
“It was easy. So easy even you could do it. There are all sorts of great things in your kitchen. Don’t you ever use it?”
“Not really,” Rob admitted. “I only come here for these two weeks. Morag, who lives here the rest of the time, always leaves stuff for me – but I have to be honest, I tend to exist on tuna pasta and grilled cheese sandwiches for the whole fortnight.”
“Grilled cheese! That’s so cute!” she said, stifling a laugh as he stared at her. “You mean cheese on toast, Rob. Come on, get it right. You may be an artist, but that’s no excuse for not learning the native tongue.”
“Artist?” he said, blankly. That was quite a gear shift, and he had no idea what she was talking about. “Who said I was an artist?” he asked, confused, wine glass halfway to his lips. Did he have paint on his sweater, he wondered? Smell of turps? Nothing could be farther from the truth – he was the kind of kid who was still drawing stick figures at 12.
“Erm, nobody did, now you mention it,” she said, “that was just my wild brain conjuring things up, I suppose – and once I’d thought it, it became true in my own mind, you know?”
She’d tied her hair back with a piece of tinsel she’d lifted from the pine tree, and it was draping metallic red glitter over her shoulders, merging with the blonde of her messy plait. Very festive, he thought. Morag decorated the tree for him every year, even though he’d told her he didn’t care. It was nice that someone was finally appreciating her efforts.
“I think,” she continued, narrowing her amber eyes as she tried to reconstruct her thought processes, “it was because I couldn’t imagine why else somebody would be holed up here on their own over Christmas, unless they were, I don’t know, seeking inspiration or communing with the spirit world. Maybe an artist, or priest on some kind of retreat. Clearly not in your case – at least I hope not, bearing in mind our adventure on the sofa earlier…so I decided artist. I was wrong, obviously. So what do you do – and why are you here? You don’t have the excuse of it being an accident like I do.”
“I’m a white slaver,” he answered, his
