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Still, if I moved quietly enough, I might be able to poke around the bedroom a bit. As silently as possible, I slid from the bed and tiptoed over to his nightstand. Gripping the handle on the drawer, I slowly pulled it open.
Nothing. Well, a box of condoms, thank god. But nothing to tell me who he actually was.
My foot brushed up against something and I glanced down, inwardly crowing when I spotted his jeans. Crouching down, I tugged his wallet from the back pocket and opened it.
Cole Porter, according to his driver’s license. An address in Chicago. A few credit cards, including a black American Express that had my eyes widening.
What the hell kind of a cop was he?
The sound of footsteps approaching caught my attention, and I shoved the wallet back into his pants and launched myself onto the bed, pulling the covers up under my armpits like they always did in the movies. The attempt at modesty made me feel foolish, but it was better than the complete and utter vulnerability of being naked.
“Well, hey there, sleepyhead.” Carrying a tray laden with food, Cole pushed the bedroom door open and grinned. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep all day.”
“Apologies. I do not usually sleep so late.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” A smug sort of satisfaction shone in his eyes as he settled the tray across my lap. “I wasn’t sure what kind of breakfast you usually eat, so there’s a bit of everything.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. There were the more American options of bacon and perfectly fried eggs, along with the more French breakfast of fresh fruit, and tartines with butter and an array of jams. And, of course, croissants. Because what American could have breakfast in France without croissants?
Under his unnervingly watchful eye, I added milk and sugar to one of the mugs of coffee and held it up. “I’m good with this. I really need to get going soon.”
His jaw tightened, sending a swarm of butterflies into a frenzy in my stomach. “You need to eat something.”
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I sipped my coffee. And nearly wept with joy at the rich, creamy flavor.
Money may not be able to buy happiness, but it bought really great fucking coffee. And that was almost the same thing as far I was concerned.
I allowed myself a moment to close my eyes and simply savor the experience. Whatever his deal was—because now that I was thinking clearly and wasn’t distracted by my libido, it was clear Cole Porter was not an American operative—the man had excellent taste in coffee.
“Interesting.”
Opening my eyes at the amusement in his voice, I cocked an eyebrow. “What is?”
“You make those same noises when I’m eating your pussy.”
Years of training, both personally and professionally, kept me from spitting coffee all over his bare chest. Barely. “That is very inappropriate.”
“Very,” he agreed with a sly grin. “But accurate.”
Taking one last sip of coffee, I forced myself to set the mug on the stand by the bed. “I really do need to get going.”
“After you eat.”
“I do not usually eat breakfast during the week.”
“Well, today you do.”
There was a note of warning under the cool, easy words. And maybe if it hadn’t been so damn long since I’d been under someone’s command, maybe if my lady bits weren’t still so beautifully sore from the fucking of a lifetime he’d given me the night before, I might have been able to heed it.
Jutting my chin out, I curled my lip in the brattiest smirk I could manage. “No. And you cannot make me.”
Cole stepped closer, crowding me, and my breath caught in my chest as I was forced to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. “I could make you. Would you like to know how?”
“You could try.” I was tempting fate and I knew it, but when his eyes hardened and he grasped my chin between his thumb and forefinger, there was no backing down.
“Just so there is no misunderstanding, I will give you three choices. One, you can sit and eat your breakfast like a good girl and then you may finish your coffee. Two, you can get dressed and I will call a car to take you home and that will be the end of it. Or three”—his grip on my chin tightened and he forced my head back further—“you can continue being a disobedient little brat, and I will put you over my knee and spank the sass right out of you. Which is it going to be?”
Jerking my face from his hold, I stood and nearly giggled at the flash of disappointment in his eyes. But it was quickly replaced by an unmistakable heat when I picked up my cup instead of my dress. Our gazes locked, and I took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee.
