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“Human’s fine.” Realizing the implication of what I said—and the memories it brought back—I rushed ahead. “But that dog looks entirely too real. He’s huge.”
Carly glanced down at him and adjusted his hat. “I always wanted a Dalmatian puppy. They’re so cute. They have such big paws.”
“I’ll buy you a dog someday.” When she flicked a surprised glance up at me, I felt like a jackass. We wouldn’t have a someday. Why couldn’t I remember that? “Or you can always get yourself one, once you’re living in your own place.”
Her lashes came down to block her expression, but not before I saw the flash of hurt.
Nice save, asshole.
“Yeah. Maybe,” she said vaguely.
As soon as the doors opened, she picked up the dog and headed down the hall.
I unlocked my apartment door and waved her inside, flipping on the light with the other hand. She set the dog on the couch, paws on the back as if he were excitedly standing on his hind legs.
That was Carly. She never stayed down for long. I admired that just like I admired so much else about her.
“I’m starving.” She tossed the cotton candy bag down on the table and ignored the mostly eaten caramel apple I held out to her as she walked past me into the kitchen.
“Still?”
“That’s candy. It doesn’t count as real food. And dancing burns lots of calories.”
She didn’t need to remind me. I’d probably never forget the image of her in that cage, bumping and grinding with her beautiful bare breasts on display for everyone to see. That her shows always made me harder than stone seemed a particularly cruel form of irony.
“Do you feel like—” She opened the refrigerator and broke off, her hand going to her heart. “Oh my God. What is all this?” She bent to sort through the shelves, making noises of pleasure with every item she found. “Fresh pears, and new potatoes, and oh my God, look at these carrots. And leaf lettuce, and jicama, and oh, no way! A rutabaga! For real?” She spun toward me and grinned. “Is it Christmas?”
I had to laugh as I walked toward her and scooped my hand through her windblown hair. “I wish it was, baby,” I said softly.
Because the Andretti mess would all be over then—one way or the other.
“You bought all this for me. Every shelf is jammed full of food.” She shifted back to the refrigerator and oohed and aahed over more of the contents. “Heirloom tomatoes? Fresh basil. A perfectly ripe eggplant. Even a whole pineapple. I can’t even believe this.”
“Look here too.” I tossed out her abandoned caramel apple and opened the first cabinet over the counter.
She darted forward and pushed me out of the way, making me laugh again. “Oh my God,” she whispered reverently, eyeing the shelves of spices and dry ingredients. Everything a good chef would need to prepare almost any kind of meal. “I think I just had an orgasm.”
Giving into my urge to harness a little of that joy for myself, I moved behind her and slipped my hand up under her skirt and along her inner thigh. She wore thigh-high lacy stockings and tiny panties, the kind that a few flicks of my fingers nudged out of the way. Beneath, she was only slightly damp, a challenge I’d never be able to resist.
“Not yet.” I kissed the side of her neck.
“I want to make bread,” she said dreamily, tipping her head to the other side to
give me more access. “Kneading the dough always gets out all my frustration.”
“Mmm.” I cupped her breast through the thin material of her bodice, finding something to knead of my own. “Do you realize you got wetter when you said the word bread?”
Her laughter was a balm to my soul. “Food is the way to my heart. And apparently, my pussy.”
I spun her around and picked her up, setting her on the counter. She looked so small and dainty there, surrounded by all that dark wood and those gleaming appliances. But her legs were open for me, and lust burned flame-bright in her eyes.
“You look like an angel, then you say dirty things like that and slay me.” I lifted her chin so I could kiss along her jawline. “Say it again.”
“Food? Heart?” Playfully, she inched open her legs a bit more. “Way?”
“Keep going.” I lowered my head to the plunging neckline of her dress and pulled it down until I could see that she had on the bra I’d given her. Even when we’d been distant, she’d clothed herself in what I’d selected for her. “I love every part of you,” I murmured, scarcely aware of my own voice over the freight-train that was my heartbeat in my ears. “From here,” I trailed my fingers from her breasts, “to here,” to the center of her chest and on down to the now wetter heart of her between her legs, “to here.”
“You’re just trying to get me to talk dirty.”
