Stretching lazily, he enjoyed the pleasant heat of the rays touching his skin, even as he wondered where Lacey had wandered off to.
As he became more awake, his brain kicked into gear and images of the night before ran through his head. Lacey slipping her T-shirt over her head. Lacey kneeling before him, taking him into her mouth. Lacey crying out as he brought her to orgasm with his mouth and hands before sliding inside her and taking her all the way up again.
His early morning erection grew harder, the throb in his balls more urgent, and he couldn’t help contemplating what it would take to get Lacey back to bed. He’d had her again and again through the night, so many times that he’d been certain it would take a miracle for him to get aroused again. Yet one sniff of her cinnamon sweetness, one thought of her beautiful, honest reactions to him, and he was right back where he started from; hot and hard and hungrier than he could ever remember being.
Rolling out of bed, he slipped into the jeans he’d left lying on the floor by the nightstand, then went in search of his wayward lover. If things went according to plan, maybe he’d be able to convince her to try out an encore before he had to head in to work.
He cruised into the living room, then stopped dead when he saw her sitting at the table, her glorious legs drawn up beneath her as she typed rapidly on the keyboard of the laptop computer she had set up in front of her.
His gut clenched at the sight, an overwhelming jealousy sweeping through him at the idea of her typing her newest fantasy into her blog. At the idea of other men reading Lacey’s desires and getting off on them.
Was she writing a new fantasy, or simply responding to comments on the one she had posted yesterday? The jealousy ratcheted up a notch, or ten, and he wanted nothing more than to storm across the room and rip the laptop from her hands.
The feeling blindsided him, had him feeling stupid as all hell.
But that didn’t make the jealousy go away, didn’t change how he felt at all. Maybe it was stupid, considering the provisos she’d put on their relationship, but after the night they’d shared, he didn’t like the idea of her opening herself up sexually to all the men who read her blog. Hated the idea of her engaging them in dialogue—reading their answering fantasies and responding to them. It felt too personal to him, too intimate, as if she was giving away a piece of herself that should belong to him.
He thought of some of the comments he’d read when he’d been on the blog yesterday, and had to grit his teeth against the urge to ask her why she was still writing it. Still answering her fans.
Wasn’t he satisfying her? After all the hours they’d spent together, making love and whispering in the dark, hadn’t she figured out that there was no fantasy she could ask for that he wouldn’t be willing to help make come true? What did she get from those men—and their desires—that she couldn’t get from him?
Jaw tight, his good mood draining from him like it had never been, he forced himself to walk toward her as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Good morning.”
“Oh, good morning,” she answered in surprise, as if she’d had no idea he’d been standing there, studying her for long moments. God, sometimes she was hard on the ego.
“Whatcha doing?” he asked, careful to keep his voice casual as he leaned down to brush his lips over her hair, all the time hoping to get a glimpse of what she was writing. But Lacey had blanked the screen as he bent down, a move that made him distinctly itchy even as it convinced him she really had been posting a new blog.
“Just working.” She lifted her face for a kiss, and he was more than happy to oblige.
Leaning down, he brushed her lips with his, once, twice, three times before taking the kiss deeper. He knew she’d been looking for a brief good-morning kiss, but with his suspicions—and petty jealousies—circling his head like a pack of slavering wolves, he couldn’t ignore the need to mark her. To brand her as his.
To show her how much he wanted her.
With a groan, he took the kiss deeper, sucked her lower lip between his teeth and nipped lightly. Her answering moan was all the encouragement he needed, especially as she wound her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Sweeping his tongue over her lips, then dipping inside, he savored the incredibly sweet taste of her. Like caramel and strawberries and dark, warm cinnamon. He wanted to eat her up, to take her inside himself and hold her there until the fire raging between them finally subsided.
She ended the kiss with a laugh, but the eyes she turned on him were as dark and turbulent as an Atlantic storm. And as dangerous.
He stepped back at the thought, releasing her slowly, and was gratified when she stood up, following him, as anxious to maintain body contact as he was.
“Where you going?” she asked, slipping her hand into the back pocket of his jeans.
“To get dressed. I figured I’d run out and get us something for breakfast.” He slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled her against his body. Even after the past two nights they’d shared, he was shocked at how small and delicate she felt against him. Because he was tall and strong, he usually went for women who were closer to six feet. Women who had some muscle on them so he didn’t have to worry about breaking them.
With Lacey, he’d always have to worry about tempering his strength, about not holding her too tightly or taking her too roughly. And yet she felt nice against him—soft and delicate and so sexy, he wanted nothing more than to lift her and bury himself in her one more time.
But she looked tired, and after everything that had happened last night, that wasn’t a surprise. Better that he hold back a little bit, feed her and pamper her. There would always be time later to make love to her again.
“I was going to make Belgian waffles,” she said, tugging him away from the bedroom and toward the kitchen. “I’ve already got everything prepped—I was just waiting for you to wake up before actually getting started on them.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve run out to get something.”
“I know.” The smile she gave him was equal parts temptress and angel. “But I wanted to. Pour yourself a cup of coffee,” she added as she slipped out from under his arm. “This will only take a couple of minutes.”
With a grin, he did as he was told, picking up the large mug she’d obviously set on the counter for his use and pouring coffee into it. Life was pretty damn good with a woman who woke up early to prepare breakfast for him—even if she did have a secret life she wanted him to know nothing about.
“Can I help?” he asked, watching her move around the kitchen with admiring eyes. She was wearing a short, black silk robe that left her glorious legs bare for his perusal, even as it cupped her pert little ass in a way that made his blood pressure skyrocket. Maybe he’d been hasty before when he’d decided to give her a little space. . . .
“There are fresh strawberries and whipped cream in the fridge. Put them on the table—and syrup, if you want it.” She nodded toward her pantry.
He followed her directions, then topped off her coffee cup and set it on the table, just as she slid the first golden brown waffle onto the plate. “Here, start with this,” she said. “Mine’ll be done in a couple of minutes.”
“I can wait.” He set the plate on the table, then cuddled up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and nibbling his way up her slender neck.
She giggled and tilted her head to the side to give him better access. “You’re supposed to be eating.”
“I am.” He darted out his tongue, swirled it in the hollow of her throat.
“The food, I mean. You’re supposed to be eating the food.”
“This is more fun . . . and infinitely more delicious.” He gave her one last lingering lick before reluctantly lifting his head. “But if you insist.”
“I do. I’m starving.” She slipped her waffle onto a second plate, unplugged the waffle iron and then slid into her chair at the table. He followed her lead, smiling as she heaped strawberries and whipped cream on her plate.
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“I love waffles,” she said as she cut off a big bite. “The bigger the better. But I only let myself have them on special occasions.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “And this is a special occasion?”
“With all the calories we burned off last night, I should say so.”
“You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”
She laughed. “I don’t mind now. I’m just saying that last night was a marathon, and this morning I feel the need for as many calories as I can sink my teeth into. To keep my strength up, you know? I have a lot of data to analyze today.”
“I do know, actually,” he answered, loading up his own plate.
“How are you feeling, by the way?” He watched her carefully from his spot across the breakfast table.
“Are you kidding me? I’m great. You have that effect on a girl.”
“I meant about the—”
“I know what you meant. And it’s fine. I’m fine.” She smiled teasingly. “You’re great medicine.”
“Well, I try.”
“You succeed—very well.”
They ate in companionable silence for a couple minutes before Lacey looked at his near-empty plate. “Do you want me to make you another waffle?” she asked. “I didn’t think about the fact that you’re twice my size and probably eat double what I do.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” She stood up and started toward the counter and the now-cold waffle iron, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap.
“I’m positive. Another waffle isn’t what I want.”
“Oh, really?” She shifted until she was straddling him, and he nearly groaned out loud as it became apparent she was completely naked under her robe. “And what do you want, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh, I think you’ve got a pretty good idea.” He untied the belt holding her robe closed, then slid the black silk off her shoulders, watching as it pooled at her feet.
God, she was so fucking beautiful it nearly ripped him in two just to look at her. With her pale, creamy skin, raspberry-pink nipples and scattering of freckles, she turned him on like no one ever had before.
Lowering his head, he traced his tongue lightly over her shoulder, playing connect the dots with the freckles grouped there. From the time he was little more than a kid, he’d had a thing for freckles—or sun kisses, as his first girlfriend had called them. He didn’t know why, but to him, there was something incredibly sexy about the little groupings that appeared at some of the most intimate and beautiful places on his lover’s body. Like she was a pretty birthday package just waiting to be unwrapped.
Lacey shivered as he made patterns on her skin with his tongue, her legs tightening on his while a low, keening cry came from between her lips. He nearly lost it at the sound, nearly reached between them, unzipped his jeans and thrust into her harder and faster than he had last night.
But she tasted too good to rush, felt too amazing against him to end it just that quickly. Not when her mouth was cold and tantalizingly sweet from a combination of the strawberries and the whipped cream.
Keeping his mouth on hers—like he had the fucking willpower to break away—he reached behind Lacey to the table and grabbed a handful of strawberries. Then stood up and balanced her perfect little ass on the edge of the table.
“Byron?”
Her beautiful green eyes blinked open in confusion and he didn’t do anything to reassure her, didn’t say anything to put her at ease. He wanted her off balance, wanted her watching him with those wary cat eyes that made him hotter and harder than anything ever had.
“Lie back,” he said instead, exerting pressure on her shoulders with his empty hand.
“What, here?” she demanded breathlessly, even as she complied with the order.
“Of course here.” He watched as she braced herself on her elbows, a move that had her pretty breasts jutting forward invitingly. “Haven’t you ever done it on a table before?”
Her eyes widened. “No.”
Her admission soothed the jealousy that had been riding him hard ever since he’d seen her sitting at her computer, and he smiled in relief and satisfaction. “Then just relax and let me do all the work.”
He took her long, lingering sigh as acquiescence, and reached behind her to the bowl of strawberries still on the table. Picked one out and ran it across her lips. Her mouth opened up automatically and she bit the pretty red berry in half, then giggled as some of its sweet juice ran down her chin.
He licked it up with one long, slow swipe of his tongue, and she stopped laughing, her eyes darkening and her body growing tense. Good. He liked it when she was a little on edge—it made the seduction all the sweeter.
He picked up another couple of berries, and her mouth opened invitingly, but he merely shook his head. Holding them above her body, he squeezed hard, then watched as all their lovely juice leaked out of his fist and ran in rivulets down her pale, beautiful body.
Lacey gasped at the first touch of the cold juice on her breasts and her stomach. Gasped again as Byron smeared the strawberry pulp around first one areola and then the second. Her nipples went pebble hard at the contact, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the cold berries or Byron’s fingers or simply the anticipation of what was coming next.
There was a wicked gleam in Byron’s eyes, one that hadn’t been there last night as he’d taken her again and again, giving her more pleasure than any woman had a right to expect. It made him look even handsomer, more dangerous. And when he bent his head to her breast, she nearly sighed in delight.
But he didn’t stop there. Instead he picked up more strawberries and once again crushed them in his palm, allowing the juice to drip over her abdomen, down to her mons and between her thighs. The contrast of the ice-cold strawberry juice and Byron’s warm mouth had her writhing in seconds, begging for him to finish the game.
He wasn’t willing to be rushed this morning, however, and he took his time teasing her with little flicks of his tongue over her breasts, down her belly, over her sex. He followed these with more demanding nips, that had her blood boiling and her hands fisting in his hair.
“Come on,” she whimpered as she tried to pull him over her. “Do it already.”
His laugh was low and taunting. “Baby, I’m just getting started. There won’t be anything to do for quite a while.”
And then he set about teasing her, giving her no more time to talk or plead or even think. She could only feel, only revel in the sensations of unbelievable pleasure that the feel of the strawberries and his tongue brought to her.
He leaned over her on the table, so that he was touching her in one long line from her shoulders to her toes. The roughness of his jeans scraped against the tender skin of her stomach and outer thigh, but she relished the contact. Embraced the burn that he was so carefully stoking inside her.
Rising on one elbow, he picked up the loaded spoon from the whipped-cream bowl and held it suspended over her. He didn’t move, didn’t flick it over her, didn’t do anything until he was sure he had her complete and total attention.
Pushing up on her elbows, she looked at him warily. “What are you going to do with that?” she asked warily.
He grinned, and it was a scandalous, shameless thing. Her heart beat faster and then she was arching, her head falling back as he dropped the cool cream onto her lower abdomen.
“Byron!” It was a squeal. A protest. An invitation for him to do whatever he wanted. For him to do everything he wanted.
“Do you know,” he whispered, as he dipped one finger into the mound of whipped cream, “I always loved finger-painting as a child?”
“F-finger-painting?” She could barely form the words, all of her energy focused on the calloused finger currently drawing figure eights on her stomach.
“Yes. I loved to make designs with the paint, to create something beautiful out of nothing.” His finger dipped lower, across her mons and down, until he was painting her pussy with
the whipped cream. Circling her clit with it and then moving down to rub the sweet stuff over her labia.
“Of course, you’re already so beautiful it makes my head spin,” he murmured as he applied more and more cream to her aching sex. “But there’s something to be said for making a little treat for myself, isn’t there?”
She whimpered—the only sound she could make as rational speech was suddenly beyond her.
“Isn’t there, Lacey?” His finger dipped inside of her and she nearly came from the contrast of hot and cold against the walls of her vagina. His burning-hot finger covered in cold whipped cream was taking her higher than she’d ever been before. He was scrambling her brains, making her crazy, and she was loving every second of it.
“Lacey?” he murmured again, delving a little deeper with his cream-covered finger. “Yes or no?”
“Yes,” she whispered through dry lips, not knowing—and not caring—what she was agreeing to. All that she had, all that she was, was focused on this man and the wicked, wonderful things he was doing to her body. Things she’d only fantasized about. Things she would never have let another man do to her.
And then he was leaning down, his tongue licking the cream from her stomach like she was a piece of fine china. He traced patterns on her quivering stomach, and whatever limited thoughts she’d managed to string together dried up and she could think no more. Only feel.
She moaned, a soft, breathless sigh that seemed to snap his control. And he was on her, his body covering hers, his shoulders flexing as he trailed hot, moist kisses down her body. He followed the trail he’d painted with the whipped cream, his talented tongue doing things to her that she had only read about before. He was everywhere—everywhere—and as his tongue thrust inside her, she lost the last remnants of control she’d been clinging to so desperately.
Her elbows went out from under her and she sank back onto the table—collapsed, really—and let him have his wicked, wicked way with her.
And what a way it was. He played her like a finely tuned instrument, loved her in those moments like she was the only woman he’d ever had. He was endlessly curious, unbelievably giving, his mouth bringing her to one whipped-cream orgasm after another as he explored her body, taking the time to learn what she liked, what she loved and what drove her absolutely insane.