don’t want someone dainty.” His words held a thread of impatience as he selected another bite and held it to her lips. “I want someone who will let me spoil them. Now, eat that and tell me what you taste.”
Meg chewed again, letting the flavors roll over her tongue. “It’s a scallop. There’s definitely ginger in there. And I think that umami flavor comes from seaweed, but there’s another layer I can’t put my finger on.”
“Sherry, according to the menu.” He took one for himself this time. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“The catering company.” She allowed him to feed her another bite, this time of boar belly with sweet potato, blueberry and morel mushrooms. “I started there at sixteen, just waitressing at events, but the owner let me hang out with her in the kitchen when she was cooking, and she taught me everything I know.”
“You didn’t want to learn from Mamesie?” He took another bite for himself, and she was jealous of the food for being against his wickedly full lips. “I’ve been to your house for dinner. She’s one hell of a cook.”
He would notice that. He noticed everything. She hesitated—she wasn’t big on sharing her private thoughts. She avoided social media like the plague because she just didn’t think anyone needed that much detail about her life. But this was John. He was a friend, of sorts, and about to be more. Sharing with him was surely okay.
“After our dad died...” Her voice trailed off. Saying anything bad about her family always felt like a betrayal. They’d survived by banding together...but sometimes she just needed some space to breathe. “I spent a lot of time giving. Helping Mamesie with the younger girls. Working to contribute to the household. Cooking, cleaning, helping with homework. And I don’t resent any of it, not at all. But having those cooking lessons, from someone who wasn’t part of the family...”
“You didn’t have to share.” He brushed a kiss over the slope of her shoulder, and she understood that he meant it to soothe rather than arouse.
Against her better judgment, she felt something fluttering in the vicinity of her heart. Before she could stop herself, she’d dipped her head back and closed her eyes, letting him absorb some of the responsibility, just for a second.
It felt...good. Amazing, even. She wanted more.
She couldn’t have it. This was not something she should be getting used to.
Yeah, he cared about her, at least a little bit, because their lives were connected, and he wasn’t a soulless monster. But he lived his life hotel room by hotel room, and she...she had so many commitments that she’d once cried when she’d missed a cooking lesson due to one of the girls having the flu.
She needed to get a grip.
“Speaking of sharing.” Shifting on his lap, she wiggled around so that she could see his face. “I don’t. Not with this. It’s only a week, so...do you think you can do that?”
Something flickered in his eyes, a shard of ice splintering, but then it was gone, and she thought she might have imagined it in the first place.
She yelped when he stood abruptly, advertising a truly impressive set of thigh muscles as he brought her with him, arms cradling her in a fireman’s hold. Her mouth dried up as he carried her across the room to the bed. Setting her down gently on the silky comforter, he fingered one of the slinky straps on her sundress, gaze boring down into hers, before stepping back.
“This might come as news to you.” He pulled the strap down, baring her shoulder, fingers dancing lightly along her skin. “But I don’t want anyone else.”
SHE HADN’T COME right out and called him a player, but she might as well have. And it shouldn’t have bothered him—hell, he’d once enjoyed the label, since it let potential bedmates know the score.
From Meg, though, it stung. And it was because it was from Meg. He didn’t fully understand it, but he wanted her in every single way. Wanted to claim her. Wanted to give her everything she wanted, and more.
For a week, a little voice in his head reminded him. He took a split second to absorb the reminder, to get a hold back on his legendary control.
Yes, he wanted her. He liked her. But at the end of it, he would also get over her, because to keep that grip on his life, he... Well, he just had to.
On the bed, Meg shifted, and he realized he’d been staring. He watched, transfixed, as she moved back to the center of the sheets. Rising to her knees, she slid the strap still on her shoulder down the kissable slope, then reached behind her to work at the zipper of her dress.
His mouth went dry as the pink silk slipped down. She caught it, holding it to her breasts with both hands, inviting him over with the arch of an eyebrow.
He liked control. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him why—not knowing where you were going to sleep that night or where your next meal was coming from did that to a person. And he couldn’t control Meg, not in the way that he craved him from the women he usually allowed into his bed.
It wasn’t something he’d ever experienced before, but knowing that she could damn well take care of herself? It made it all the more exciting when she placed herself in his hands. Like right now, sitting there on the bed, on her knees, waiting.
Waiting for him.
“We need to set some limits.” He didn’t move closer, couldn’t let himself touch her, not yet. He didn’t want to put his hands on that satin skin until he could be sure that she was all in. And he wasn’t entirely convinced that she knew what she was asking for.
“You mean like...hard and soft?” She smiled and parted her thighs, and he fought to keep his hands to himself.
“Someone’s been doing their reading.” He was oddly touched that she had. “But we don’t have to go that...intense. Okay? I don’t have to push you like that.”
She pressed her thighs together again, and he mourned the loss of the visual, that hint at the promised land. His gaze traveled up the length of her body, and he bit back a groan when he saw that she’d let the dress slip just an inch lower.
“Let’s get one thing straight.” She narrowed her eyes at him, defiant. “You already know a little birdie told me that you’re kinky. I know that most of your women are submissive to you, in the traditional sense.”
“As I said, I don’t expect you to do that.” Couldn’t imagine her acquiescing fully, not this vibrant, wild woman who he couldn’t take his eyes off.
“Don’t you understand yet?” The hands cupping her breasts moved, and the dress fell, pooling around her waist. “I’m not put off by what you want. I’m turned on.”
“Jesus,” he choked out, fisting his hands at his sides. She hadn’t been wearing a bra beneath the dress, and now her torso was completely bare, naked breasts open for his eyes to feast on. And what breasts they were—large, ripe, full. The peachy tips looked like puckered silk and made his mouth water. He wanted to touch, to taste—and he wanted it now.
Still,
