His words cut through her musings, which was probably a good thing, or she’d drift down some fantasy-laden road of him bending her over every surface in this small room.
A deep inhale caused the scent of chicken and the earthy notes of guasca to stir her more pressing appetites.
“Jhon, the owner of the rooms, sent us some food. Chicken soup and empanadas.”
“Ajiaco,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows. “It’s one of my favorites since I’ve been here.”
“Smells good,” he admitted. “Steel saw the empanadas and nearly lost his shit. Demon said he makes really good ones, a recipe from when he lived in Argentina.” He chuckled. “Man had the tray in one hand, empanada in the other, took a bite before going into their room, and I swear, his eyes rolled back in his head.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, then rested. Even that little bit of movement took effort, but she improved every time she woke up.
He crossed to the bed. “Easy, there. Let me help you.”
Guiding one of her arms around his shoulders, he then slid his arms under her knees and around her back. One swift motion, and she was being carried to the small table where the food sat on a tray, along with mismatched plates and silverware. Wherever they were, lodging was serviceable rather than comfortable.
The food, however? With the first spoonful of soup, her eyes closed with a moan. So good! When she opened them, eager to get another spoonful, she caught Triumph staring at her.
“What?” she asked. Was something wrong with her? She’d been sleeping forever in a moving vehicle. Did she have scary bed head? She checked her clothing, but everything appeared to be covered, and she hadn’t spilled soup on herself.
“I’ve just…” He swallowed hard and licked his lips. He cleared his throat, and when he finished the thought, his voice was tight, like he was trying to hold back his reaction. “That was quite the reaction to soup.”
“Have you tried it yet? Trust me. Someone here is an amazing cook. You’ll understand why Steel’s eyes rolled back in his head when you do.”
He shrugged. “Food is food, for the most part. Some of it tastes better than others, and I certainly have favorites, but nothing has ever made me make sex noises over it.”
One eyebrow lifted, and she smiled across the table at him. “Sex noises? Really?” Shaking her head, she lifted her spoon toward him. “Here. Try it.”
His nostrils flared just the tiniest bit. His eyes widened a fraction, and he sucked in his lip, then quickly released it. Ever so slowly, he leaned in to close his lips around the spoon and swallow it down.
Eyes never leaving hers, his mouth released the spoon, but he remained leaning on the table just as he was, arms folded on thetabletop beneath his chest, still as close to her as when she’d fed him.
Holy… wow. Just wow. Her insides burst into flames. Spontaneous combustion was not a myth because it just happened to her.
“Now the empanada,” she urged. The normal rasp in her throat stuck there, coming out even huskier than usual.
Based on the shrinking of his irises, he felt the heat too.
Again, without breaking the hold he had on her eyes, he reached down to the plate in the center of the table, picked up one of the flaky pastries, and bit into it.
He didn’t rush. Each individual rise and fall of his teeth, chewing the chicken and spices, was a deliberate act simulating what other things he would savor with her.
Without her permission, her hand reached out to brush away a piece of the pastry that caught at the corner of his lip.
He turned his head just in time to slip his tongue out and lick at the spot she touched, catching the side of her finger.
“You’re right,” he said. “Best food I’ve ever tasted.”
Oh yeah. He was not talking about the food. It took everything in her not to beg him to clear the table with one swoop of his arm, lay her down on it, and feast on her like that. That mouth would destroy her.
An irrational moment of panic caused her to snatch her hand back and place it in her lap, her eyes dropping to her plate. She was so fucked. Inappropriate timing or not, she wanted this man, and it scared her.
She grabbed her braid, brushing it against her lips.
“Hey,” he murmured.
When she didn’t look up, his hand reached across the table, palm up toward her.
Looking at it, her vision tunneled, and she felt her chest tighten. Air. She couldn’t get any air.
