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The feeling of power made her a little light-headed. She’d cornered him on his home turf as planned; now all she had to do was torture him until he lost the will to resist.
Good Lord, was that a thong peeking over the waistband of her jeans?
Rye cursed under his breath as Maddy strolled down the hallway ahead of him, swaying her slim hips like a courtesan.
He took several deep breaths and tried to focus on the dull ache in his thigh from the punishing physiotherapy instead of the growing ache in his crotch.
Take your eyes off her backside, King, before all the blood drains out of your brain.
He tried to muster some irritation at the surprise visit. He’d been punishing himself for over an hour on those damn weight machines to stop from fixating on all the things he had convinced himself he should not be doing with Maddy this evening—and now she’d shot all his hard work right to hell.
He stopped in the kitchen doorway and watched her shrug off her suede jacket to reveal a lacy little vest thing that moulded to her full breasts like a second skin. As she unloaded a bunch of plump red tomatoes from her shopping bag, her cleavage strained against the stretchy cotton.
He bit back a groan. This had to be the road to ruin because he could feel all his good intentions crashing and burning in a tidal wave of lust.
Unfortunately, he was finding it hard to care. One more night couldn’t do that much harm after two solid weeks of unbridled indulgence. He’d simply start weaning himself off his addiction to Maddy Westmore tomorrow.
Best to be philosophical about it. Maybe having her here instead of in the cosy little cottage wasn’t such a bad thing after all. He’d resisted the temptation to invite her to the Manor so far because the dark oppressive house always made him feel more vulnerable, more exposed.
And Maddy was proving to be quite the little busybody. Usually, when he made it clear he wasn’t into share and discuss, women got bored or backed off. But not Maddy. She’d been relatively easy to put off at first but, as the days passed, she’d got more and more persistent. And he’d been finding it tougher and tougher to stay focused and stop himself from telling her anything she wanted to know.
Which would be a bad move for a number of reasons. He didn’t talk about his past with the women he dated and confiding in Maddy would be more risky than most.
Even after their short acquaintance, he’d figured out that Maddy Westmore was a nurturer at heart. A romantic, despite the rubbish her parents had put her through. Which meant she’d be bound to put her own sentimental spin on whatever he said—and maybe even confuse an urge to confide with an urge to commit. And no way did he want her getting that impression.
But, as Maddy pulled a brass saucepan out of the cabinet, he couldn’t deny how good it felt to see her cooking him a meal in the Manor’s kitchen. She made the place feel warm.
She looked over her shoulder and smiled. ‘Why don’t you shower while I cook? It won’t take long.’ Her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Unless you want me to scrub your back?’
He coughed and rubbed his thigh. ‘Probably not a good idea if we want to eat before midnight.’
She gave an infectious laugh while hefting the saucepan to the sink. Then bent forward to turn on the tap. The purple lace string winked at him again.
Damn. Definitely a thong.
Wrenching his gaze away, he headed for the bedroom.
Better make that a cold shower. Maddy seemed different this evening, determined, somehow—and even more irresistible than usual. He had to keep his wits about him.
For as long as was humanly possible.
‘That was sensational.’ Rye leaned forward to lift Maddy’s hand off the table, his eyes heating as he kissed her knuckles. ‘Now, what was that you said about dessert?’
The man looked relaxed and well fed and horny, Maddy thought as her heartbeat pummelled. Mission accomplished. She’d been flirting mercilessly with him all through the meal.
Slipping her hand out of his, she got out of her chair and sat in his lap. ‘I have chocolate sauce,’ she purred, draping her arms over his shoulders.
He gripped her waist, shifted her weight onto his good thigh. ‘Chocolate sauce but no ice cream?’
She giggled. From the prominent bulge pressing into her bottom, she knew she had him. ‘We’re not going to need the ice cream.’
He cursed softly, humour twinkling in his eyes. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’
‘How did you guess?’
It was now or never. She’d never seen him so open or so pliable before.
He tugged her closer to nuzzle her neck, but she pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Not so fast, King. The chocolate sauce comes at a price.’
