He crosses the hazy room, although the smoke has started to clear, and rakes his gaze up and down my body. Thanks to my wet skin and dripping hair, the bathrobe clings to me, and he arches an eyebrow. “Were you making a special dinner?”
I clear my throat. “Kind of.”
He cocks his head. “What for?”
I swallow. I’m such an idiot. “I, uh, thought it would be nice.”
“And you were planning to dine in your bathrobe?” He’s no longer bothering to suppress his amusement. Jackass.
I manage to tamp down the urge to stomp my foot. “No. I got out of the shower and the smoke alarm started going off. Then there was some kind of cheese explosion and …” Embarrassed, I shake my head.
He presses his lips together and scans the room, surveying the carnage I’ve caused in his usually immaculate kitchen. My burned thumb throbs, and I suck it into my mouth again.
“Are you hurt?” His joking tone is replaced by concern, which only makes me feel like an even bigger idiot.
I hold out my thumb. “Just a tiny burn. I’m fine.”
He takes hold of my hand and leads me to the sink, turns on the cold tap and lets the water run for a few seconds before holding my hand beneath it. “This should soothe most of the sting.”
“I’m fine,” I insist.
His brown eyes narrow. “When was the last time you let anyone take care of you?”
I blink at the unexpectedness of his question and answer honestly. “I can’t remember.”
He sucks on his top lip, his fingertips brushing over my palm as he continues holding my thumb under the soothing cold water. “Well, I appreciate the planning, even if the execution left something to be desired,” he says, his lips curving in a way that makes me smile too.
“Yeah. Should have just stuck to steak and fries.”
He places his free hand on his chest. “Now that is the way to my heart.” He winks. “Or was it my pants you were trying to get into?”
My cheeks burn, and his eyes roam over my face and down to my cleavage. “Jesus, fuck,” he mutters as he realizes his joke was spot-on.
I pull my robe tighter around myself, but it’s too late because I already feel exposed and vulnerable.
He turns off the tap and inspects my thumb. Water drips from my hand onto his suit jacket, but he doesn’t seem to care. “Feel any better?”
“A little, thank you,” I whisper.
He keeps his eyes fixed on mine as he lifts my hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the dime-sized patch of pink skin. “How about now?”
Goosebumps break out along my forearms. “A little more,” I croak.
Sucking my thumb into his mouth, he swirls that expert tongue over the pad, and I feel the effects in every part of my body. My lips part on a gasp, and he gives my burn another gentle kiss. His eyes are filled with longing as they sear into mine. “And now?”
“Better,” I pant, my legs trembling.
He trails his free hand down the lapel of my bathrobe. “Are you naked under here, Mel?”
Molten heat fills my core. “Yeah. I just got out of the shower. I had a dress and some lingerie …” I babble, wanting to face-palm myself for admitting that.
“I prefer the bathrobe.”
“You do?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Actually, it’s what’s beneath it that I prefer.” He tugs on the tie around my waist, and my robe falls open.
He sucks air through his teeth, his hungry gaze traveling lower. “Fuck me, you’re beautiful.”
The fire heating my cheeks races down my neck and chest. I shift from one foot to the other, and he smirks at me. “You were planning to seduce me with food and sexy lingerie, but you blush when I tell you you’re beautiful?”
“I wasn’t planning to seduce you,” I protest.
His eyes twinkle. “No?”
“Well, no, I-I …”
He wraps his arms around my waist. “So what exactly were you hoping for, Melanie?” His breath dusts over my forehead.
I press my lips together.
“Tell me, corazón.” My breath hitches in my throat. One of my best friends in high school spoke Spanish, so I know the word means sweetheart in that context. I blink at him, wetness already slicking between my thighs. “What do you want me to do to you?”
I’m no wallflower. I’ve never had a problem asking guys for what I want, but Nathan James is intimidating, which is probably why he makes me feel more like a nervous teenager on a first date than a confident grown woman. Still, I take a deep breath and blurt, “I want you to fuck me.”
He immediately lifts me, wraps my legs around his hips, and carries me a few feet to drop me down on the kitchen island. With deft, eager hands, he peels off my robe and explores my torso, squeezing my breasts in his palms and tugging on my hardened nipples. Moaning, I arch into the pleasure.
He hisses out a breath. “Fucking beautiful.”
