her, he thought how beautiful it looked—the chocolate against the vanilla cream of her skin. But then all thoughts were driven from his head as he took her chocolate-covered nipple into his mouth and felt her stiffen and arch against him.
His tongue teased her, licking her clean. The chocolate was impossibly sweet and cloying and it masked the taste of her skin, so without lifting his head he reached behind her and turned the tap on, running cold water into the cup of his hand. Straightening up, he let it trickle onto her, watching her eyes widen in shock as the cold water ran down her skin.
‘Kit, you—!’
His mouth was on hers before she could finish. Sitting on the granite countertop, she was the same height as he was and he put his hands on her bottom, pulling her forwards so that her thighs were tight around his waist, her pelvis hard against his erection.
God, he loved her. He loved her straightforwardness, her generosity. He loved the way she seemed to understand him, and her willingness to give him what he needed. He didn’t have to find words, not when he could show her how he felt this way.
Her arms were around his neck, her fingers tangling in his damp hair. He was just about to lift her up, hitch her around him and haul her over to the table where he could take her more easily when there was a loud knock at the front door.
He stopped, stepping backwards, cursing quietly and with more than a hint of irony, given his choice of word.
‘Don’t answer it.’
It was tempting, so tempting, given how utterly, outrageously sexy she looked sprawled on the kitchen countertop, her wet shirt open, her mouth bee-stung from his kisses. He dragged a hand over his face, summoning the shreds of his control.
‘I have to,’ he said ruefully, heading for the door. ‘It’s breakfast. I ordered it when you were sleeping, and since they only agreed to home delivery as a special favour …’
Left alone in the kitchen, Sophie pulled her shirt together and slid shakily down from the worktop, her trembling legs almost giving way beneath her as she tried to stand. Through the thick fog of desire she was dimly aware of voices in the hallway—one Kit’s, the other vaguely familiar. Dreamily she picked up the chocolate spread and dipped her finger into it, closing her eyes and tipping her head back as she put it in her mouth.
‘In here?’
The vaguely familiar voice was closer now and she jumped, opening her eyes in time to see an even more familiar face come into the kitchen; so familiar that for a moment she thought it was someone she must know from way back—a friend of Jasper’s, perhaps?
‘Hi. You must be Sophie.’
Grinning, the man put a wooden crate stacked with aluminium cartons on the table and held out his hand. Sophie shook it, feeling guilty that she couldn’t quite place him and managing to say hello without making it obvious she couldn’t remember his name.
Kit came in carrying a bottle of champagne.
‘Thanks, I appreciate this.’
‘No big deal—it’s the least I can do considering you’ve spent the last five months being a hero. It’s good to see you back in one piece—or nearly.’
He gestured to the shrapnel wounds on Kit’s face. Sophie noticed the tiny shift in Kit’s expression; the way it darkened, tightened.
‘How’s the restaurant?’ he asked smoothly.
‘Good, thanks, although I don’t get to spend as much time there as I’d like, thanks to the TV stuff. I just got back from filming for a new series in the US.’
Horror congealed like cold porridge in Sophie’s stomach as her eyes flew back to the man. She now realised why he was vaguely familiar. Suddenly she was aware that she was standing in the same kitchen as one of the country’s top celebrity chefs wearing a wet shirt that barely skimmed her bottom and clung to her breasts, eating chocolate spread with her finger straight from the jar.
Surreptitiously she put the jar down and tried to shrink backwards behind the large vase of flowers she’d bought in Covent Garden. Luckily the Very Famous Chef was engrossed in a discussion about business with Kit as they headed back
towards the door, but he did pause in the doorway and look back at her.
‘Nice to meet you, Sophie. You must get Kit to bring you to the restaurant some time.’
Not on your life, thought Sophie, smiling and nodding; not now he’d seen her like this. As soon as he’d gone she picked up the jar of chocolate spread and was eating it with a spoon when Kit came back in.
‘You could have warned me,’ she moaned between spoonfuls.
‘Sorry,’ Kit drawled, ‘but I was pretty distracted myself.’
‘He’s a friend of yours?’
‘That depends on your definition of friend. I know him reasonably well because his restaurant is just around the corner from here and I’ve been there enough times over the years.’
Sophie took another spoonful of chocolate spread. People didn’t go to restaurants on their own. She pictured the kind of women Mr Celeb-Chef must have seen with Kit in the past, and the contrast they must have made with her, now.
Kit was looking at the foil trays in the crate. ‘Put down that revolting sweet stuff; we have smoked-salmon bagels, blueberry pancakes, almond croissants, proper coffee, oh—and this, of course.’ He held up the bottle of champagne. ‘So—do you want to eat here, or in bed?’
Sophie’s resistance melted like butter in a microwave. She found that she was smiling.
‘What do you think?’
Sophie walked slowly back to Kit’s house, trailing her fingers along the railings outside the smart houses, a bag filled with supplies from the uber-stylish organic supermarket on the King’s Road bumping against her leg. She felt she had some ground to make up after the incriminating chocolate-spread incident this morning.
The thought of chocolate spread drew her attention to the
pleasurable ache in her thighs as she walked, and she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering ahead of her, to the house with the black front door at the far end of the square. From this distance it looked the same as all its expensive, exclusive neighbours, but Sophie felt a little quiver inside her at the thought that Kit was there.
She had left him going through yet more of the post that had arrived while he’d been away, and she reluctantly had to admit it had been almost a relief to have an excuse to get out of the house. They had eaten breakfast and made love, slowly and luxuriously, then lain drowsily together as the clouds moved across the clean blue sky beyond the window and the morning slid into afternoon. Then they had made love again.
It had been wonderful. More than wonderful—completely magical. So why did she have the uneasy feeling that it was a substitute for talking?
There was so much she wanted to say, and even more that she wanted him to tell her. She thought of the contraceptive pills she’d thrown in the bin and felt a hot tide of guilt that she hadn’t actually got round to mentioning that. But how could she when it felt as if he had put up an emotion-proof
