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He nipped her fingertip, his gaze so hot she could feel her skin sizzling. ‘Name it.’
‘Tell me why you hate this house so much?’ she asked, keeping a stranglehold on her own hormones.
‘What?’ He barked out a laugh. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Why on earth do you want to know that?’ He didn’t sound wary, just astonished. Astonished was good. It would keep his guard down. And she’d already satisfied some of her curiosity. He hadn’t denied it. He did hate the house, but why?
‘I’m nosy,’ she said.
‘I noticed.’
‘Answer the question, King, or there’ll be no chocolate sauce with your dessert.’
He gave his head a shake, looking impressed. ‘You are unbeliev …’
‘Stop whining and ‘f
ess up,’ she interrupted, lazily caressing the curls at his nape. ‘I have you at my mercy.’
He let out an exasperated chuckle. ‘All right. Fine.’ He jostled her on his lap, hot hands stroking under her camisole. ‘I’ll answer the damn question. But, I warn you, this line of conversation has the potential to turn into a passion killer.’
‘I happen to know it would take a nuclear war to kill your passion,’ she teased, excitement coursing through her.
He was finally going to let her in; the shutters hadn’t come down—and he seemed unable to make them. The surge of pleasure at the thought was almost as potent as the shiver of desire rippling up from her core.
‘I hate this house because it’s my grandfather’s. He didn’t want me here. And he made sure I knew it. And the loneliness stuck, I guess.’ He said the words easily, with none of his usual caution. A boyish smile edged his lips. ‘Until now.’
The second the words slipped out, Rye tensed.
Maddy beamed—as if she were a Sunday School teacher and he a five-year-old who’d just mastered his catechism.
‘Oh, Rye,’ she whispered, her expression brimming with sympathy and understanding and something that looked disturbingly like tenderness.
Oh, crap. What the hell had he said?
He’d been clinging onto his wits all damn evening with the desperation of a drowning man. While he’d watched her hips jiggle as she’d minced garlic and simmered spices. Through the breathy laugh as she’d whisked their meal onto the table with a flourish. During the slow-motion sweep of her tongue when she licked tomato juice off her full bottom lip. Even when she’d sat on his lap and done that torturous little wiggle. But he’d lost it completely somewhere around the mention of chocolate sauce. He scrambled frantically to get it back.
She stroked his cheek with an open palm, sent him a soft, sexy and unbearably sweet smile. ‘Why was it so hard for you to tell me that?’
He jerked his head back, grasped her wrist to hold her hand away from his face. ‘Don’t!’
‘Don’t what?’ He saw the flicker of hurt, of distress, and loosened his grip.
Calm down. Don’t overreact. You’ve already made an ass of yourself.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said carefully. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’
‘What am I thinking?’ she asked gently.
Yeah, like he was going to step into that minefield.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he lied, cradling her head in his hand. ‘The only thing that matters is this.’
Fisting his fingers in her hair, he captured her mouth. She gave a shocked little sob, but her lips parted. Their tongues tangled, duelled and then danced as she surrendered, her hunger matching his own. His breath panted out as he broke away, the erection he’d been sporting most of the night surging back to life.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said, running his hands up her sides to cup heavy breasts.
