You. On your knees. Specifically.
“Is your Daddy texting you something naughty?” River poked Rowan’s thigh with her bare toes.
Rowan felt her face flame. If they only knew. With Nan’s keen eye laser-focused on what River was talking about, Rowan knew a change of subject was needed.
“We’re going out to dinner tomorrow night with Tim and Saoirse, Nan. The guys want to go over the plans for the distillery, and we just want to talk to Saoirse about her wedding dress,” she chuckled.
Nan showed them the dress she was thinking about wearing to the wedding and what she’d picked out for Devlen. Thanksgiving lists were made, and tasks were divvied up. They discussed possible scenarios about Jo and Thomas breaking up. Unanimously, they agreed it had to have been something the grumpy Scot had done.
The rest of the afternoon was wonderful and relaxing—sprinkled with hundreds of random inappropriate thoughts about her boyfriend. Smothering her random grins was the only trial.
“I orderedFrench onion soup earlier and garden salads from that bakery down the block that you like,Bácús. Would you like me to heat some up for dinner? It’s early yet, I know, but just in case you’re hungry...” Hugh let his voice trail off, inwardly groaning at his awkwardness. Rowan was standing in his kitchen, the soft, butter-yellow appliances the perfect backdrop to her causal lean.
It’s too bad he sounded like a nervous waiter on his first day on the job. Was he about to ask what she’d like to drink? He fidgeted with the barstools before toying with the blown glass sculpture Rowan must have picked out. It was all the colors of the sun, deep red, fire orange, and too many yellows to count all swirled together. He wouldn’t have picked it, but he could admit it looked perfect on the kitchen island.
And what was Rowan doing while he did his best to not look like a squirrely, clueless teenager? She just leaned there. Her back against the counter, elbows resting atop the barstools on either side of her.
Unruffled, casual, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, calculating…something.
“I’m not hungry for that,” she finally managed to speak.
Hugh grimaced. Damn, he’d thought that was one of her favorite meals. “I have eggs and cheese. I can make a simple omelet…though Pat is the best cook. I could call h?—”
Rowan interrupted. “I’m not hungry. For food.”
He swallowed thickly at the blatant innuendo of what shewashungry for. So, that was her game. His body instantly responded, forcing him to adjust himself, which he didn’t bother to hide.
Her eyes followed the movement. He didn’t say another word, just waited and watched, leaning against the counter himself now. Watching her watch him.
She would cave eventually.
She didn’t cave. She just took what she wanted.
Rowan pushed off the counter, moving left to sidle up in front of him before laying her hands flat on the marble, either side of his body.
“Take your shirt off,” she demanded.
Fuuuuckkkk.He almost got whiplash. He ripped the offending garment off his head so fast. When she ran her nails over his chest, leaning forward to kiss and lick his nipples, his legs threatened to buckle
Clearing his throat, he said, “Please, be careful of your hand.” She’d told him it felt fine. Most of the damage had been around her wrist and above her thumb. Still...
When her fingers paused at his waistband, he placed his hands around her tiny waist and pulled her tight against his body. She stood on top of his shoes, giving her a few extra inches. He leaned closer to her upturned face.
Instead of kissing him, she whispered, “Get your phone out and read the last text from you to me.”
He felt fire race up his spine. He knew exactly what his last text had been. “I don’t need my phone.”You. On your knees. Specifically.
“Well?” She whispered against his lips.
His answer was to scoop her up and sprint to their bedroom.
Two hours and a shower later, he and Rowan settled in the living room, wolfing down French onion soup and crusty baguettes on their cream-colored leather couch, watching the first season of Great British Bake Off. Apparently, he had to see the original judges, Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry, to fully appreciate the later seasons.
His body temperature was still running warm from coming twice, but he felt insatiable where Rowan was concerned. In fact, he was having trouble concentrating on the difference between a stodgy cake and a claggy one—who in the hell cared? Rowan.
He was in the middle of dunking a bite of bread in his soup and pondering why the contestants were made to use, surely, the smallest ovens in the world, when his attention was snagged again by the woman sitting next to him. Rowan had slipped the silver spoon between her lips and sucked off the broth, licking the stray drops from the metal. Christ, have mercy.
Her mouth had been doing something similar to his body not long ago. He gritted his teeth as he felt himself swell against his pajama pants. He really should be satisfied, but where wanting her was concerned, he had little control.
