Читать книгу Her Valentine Fantasy - Nancy Warren - Страница 11

Jessica Lafayette opened her door with the keycard the hot waiter handed her, his last words still echoing between them. Her Valentine Fantasy? Could this horrible night be about to turn around?

“Thanks,” she said, holding the door open so he could enter. “I’ll get your cash.” Which left her with the dilemma of wanting to give him a very generous tip for causing him so much trouble and not wanting to embarrass either of them.

“Don’t worry about it now,” he said. “Enjoy your dessert.” Which meant he was planning to stay for a while.

Perfect.

She realized she didn’t even know his name. Benedict wasn’t one of those Hi, my name is Darrell and I’ll be your server tonight kind of places. It was much too upscale for that. Which meant she didn’t know the name of the guy she was inviting into her hotel room.

Slut! a voice in her head screamed.

Hell, yeah! her inner rebel cried.

Because clearly, following the rules hadn’t worked for her sex life. She’d been following rules so long she’d forgotten the thrill of bending them, even snapping a few now and then. She’d been serious, smart and hardworking all her life. She was the type of friend who never blabbed secrets or forgot birthdays. Which meant that she had a good degree, a great career, was beloved of her friends. But, while she’d been working her ass off in her job as an event planner and listening to her friends bitch about guys, she’d dated men who were too much like her. They put most of their energies into their careers, their sports and their buddies.

She’d ended up with a completely shitty love life.

Which is why, when another dateless New Year’s Eve came around, and her BFF Morgan asked her about her New Year’s resolution, she hastily revised her answer from the planned “increase ab workout to three times a week and lose an inch around my hips” to a slightly tipsy “have some seriously hot sex with a gorgeous guy.”

“It’s going to take you all year to get a decent shag?” Morgan demanded so loud everyone in the vicinity turned. Put vodka inside Morgan and the effect was the same as putting a megaphone in front of her mouth.

“No,” she whispered back, hoping her friend would take the hint. “I’ll do it by—” her mind searched for an obvious have-great-sex-by date “—by Valentine’s Day.”

“Way to put it out to the universe! Hot sex by V. Day. You go!” Morgan bellowed.

And, being the follow-the-rules-type of girl, once the hangover had passed, she signed up on two internet dating sites plus tried to spend fewer nights at the office and get out more socially. In the five weeks since she’d begun, her tally of great sex was exactly zero.

Tonight’s date was pretty typical of her luck so far—a guy on the rise in banking. She’d realized within three minutes that the only way he’d get her naked was if he bored the pants off her.

The waiter, however, was a different story. Everything about him, from the dark brown of his eyes to the wave in his slightly too long hair, to the way he moved, with smooth confidence, got her girl parts humming.

There were moments, when he was describing the chef’s special creations for the evening, that his deep, sexy voice might have been saying, “The first fresh asparagus of the season is lightly steamed and drizzled in basil-infused olive oil,” but what she heard was, I want to take you up against that wall and rub basil-infused olive oil over your body and then lick it all off.

And right then she decided that her problem was that she kept dating workaholic bores. She should totally be dating waiters and ski instructors and golf pros, guys who worked to live rather than lived to work.

It was as if fate, the universe, her fairy godmother or some combination of the three, had offered her a guy who had so much sexual confidence that it was making her light-headed. And who obviously wasn’t too concerned about work, since he’d blown off the rest of his night’s work so easily.

Perfecter and perfecter.

“Would you like your Valentine Fantasy now?” he asked in that low, sexy voice that made her inner thighs quiver.

She didn’t even know his name.

Sex with a stranger. Was that her fantasy?

Maybe. She thought everything about this man and this night was a fantasy. And the thing with fantasies was, they only worked if you totally let yourself fall into them.

She nodded.

The door shut behind them with a click. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his heat, see that his eyelashes were thick and curled. He was tall, his shoulders broad, the black shirt and pants that she supposed were his uniform made him look like an outlaw.

He smelled like chocolate. She remembered that foolish remark she’d made about thinking if sex had a flavor it would be chocolate. She’d been half-joking at the time, but he really did smell like the best, darkest, richest, most decadent chocolate.

She opened her lips, moistened them with her tongue and watched him stare at her mouth as though mesmerized.

Then he flipped open the box and she realized it wasn’t him who smelled like chocolate. It was the dessert. The glorious over-the-top, heart-shaped, raspberry-drizzled, sparkly fantasy of a dessert.

“That is probably the prettiest dessert I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll tell our pastry chef,” he said, sounding proud. She thought it was cool that a waiter took such pride in his place of work.

There was a tiny pause. She could grab a wad of cash and get rid of him, or she could work on that New Year’s resolution with a gorgeous stranger.

“Would you like to share it with me?” she asked.

“I’d like to share a lot of things with you,” he said, confirming her suspicion that he was as into her as she was into him. Excitement fluttered in her belly. She was so glad she’d packed a few condoms in her makeup bag just in case.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, realizing he’d been on his feet for hours. She indicated the sofa that sat in front of the window.

The suite contained a convenience kitchen and she opened the fridge and removed the bottle of champagne the client had given her today as a small thank-you at the end of the trade show and conference she’d organized. Seemed like the perfect time to open the bubbly.

She grabbed a couple of wineglasses from the glass-fronted cabinet above the sink and a couple of forks from the small cutlery drawer. She passed him the bottle. “Would you?”

“Absolutely.”

She scooted down beside him and he opened the bottle with the most professional of slight pops, no cork banging into the ceiling and champagne foaming on the carpet. He poured wine into two glasses and handed her one.

The wine was pale gold and bubbles chased each other in the depths. Raising his glass in a toast, he said, “To unexpected pleasures.”

His words were casual enough that he could be referring to the wine, but the way he looked at her suggested he was taking pleasure in being there. With her.

The word pleasures had her blood acting like champagne in her veins. She felt light, effervescent. They both sipped and then she reached for the dessert box.

There were four white plates in the cupboard but she was pretty sure she’d make a mess of that pretty dessert if she tried to divide it and put it on plates. She wasn’t the handiest woman in the kitchen. Besides, there was something incredibly intimate about sharing. She left it in the box.

She put her fork into the soft chocolate, taking the very bottom tip of the heart. He watched as she tasted it. “Oh,” she moaned as the flavors burst in her mouth, the smoothest, most sinful chocolate, the sweet tartness of raspberry and hints of almond and something else she couldn’t name.

“Try it,” she said, aware that he was watching her the way she’d been eyeing the chocolate creation.

“Okay,” he said, and leaned forward. He lifted a hand and gently wiped a speck of chocolate from her lower lip. Just the graze of his finger pad on her sensitive skin made her shiver. Holding her gaze, he put his finger into his mouth and sucked off the chocolate.

A funny sound came out of her mouth, like a strangled moan and, correctly interpreting the sound to mean she wanted more, much, much more, he leaned right over the box and kissed her.

The feel of his mouth on hers was electric. His lips were warm and firm and commanding in the way he simply took over her mouth.

Which was absolutely fine with her. Her lips opened and his tongue slipped in, tasting her, teasing her, overwhelming her with the flavors of chocolate, champagne and hot, sexy man. She pressed closer, wrapping her free hand around his neck so she could play in the unruly, thick hair that fascinated her.

They kissed for a long time, tongues tangling, breath mingling, hearts thumping. At least hers was. She felt excitement build inside her, strong and fast. And yet there was no hurry. She loved that he seemed content to kiss her until the end of time, not use a kiss as a quick signal that he was about to rip her clothes off and get right to the sex part as her last boyfriend had done.

He pulled back at last and she saw that his eyes had a stunned expression in them, which she was fairly certain would be matched in her own eyes.

“Wow,” she said shakily. “You are a great kisser.” Best kisser in the world, actually. Best kisser since the mouth had been invented.

His grin was intimate, secret. “The kiss tells everything, don’t you think?”

She nodded even though she wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at.

He reached out and took the fork from her hand, pushed a generous bite of Fantasy onto it and raised the fork to her lips. Oh, God, he was feeding her, and making it seem like foreplay, which she supposed it was. As her mouth opened to accept the rich dessert, he said, “I think if the kiss strikes sparks, you know the sex will be amazing.”

Again that sound came out of her throat, not a purr, not a growl, not a moan—well, maybe a moan—but it all lumped together in an incoherent cave-person sound. He must have correctly interpreted the sound as a “yes, please, I wantwantwant, needneedneed, some completely amazing sex.”

And she wanted it, needed it, now.

Gently, she took the fork out of his hand and put the Fantasy-in-a box on the table. Then she closed the distance between them. This time, she did the kissing. She brushed her lips gently over his, then pressed against him, taking the kiss deep, deeper.

At the same time, her hands were busy, exploring the contours of a seriously buff chest, abs that felt rock hard. He wrapped strong arms around her and began doing some exploring of his own. She could hear traffic sounds from way, way down below where, amazingly, the real world still carried on. But up here there was no sound but their breathing, growing more heated by the minute.

The next sound she heard was her zipper sliding stealthily down her back. How glad she was that she’d chosen to wear her sexiest lingerie tonight, hoping her date would rock her world. Wearing something delectable against her skin made her feel sexy.

The irony was not lost on her that she’d dressed for a man who’d blown her off on their first date and she was clearly about to sleep with this man who hadn’t even asked her for a date.

She considered asking him his name, but one of her dark, secret fantasies had always been to make love with a stranger. No one but her battery-powered rabbit knew how many times she’d fantasized about having sex with a man who showed up one day, dark and sexy and perhaps a little dangerous, who drenched her in passion, took her to places she’d never imagined possible. He wasn’t part of her past, and there was no future beyond her orgasm—he was only here in this present moment to give her pleasure.

In her wildest dreams she’d never imagined living out her fantasy.

It seemed she was about to do exactly that.

She did know a bit about who he was, of course. He was an excellent waiter at one of the top restaurants in Seattle. Sure, he could still turn out to moonlight as a serial killer, but all her instincts about people–and they were pretty good—told her she could trust him.

She leaned forward so the blue fabric slipped off her shoulders and slid to her waist.

The sound he made was satisfyingly incoherent. He reached out and traced the outline of her breasts through the ecru lace of her bra. Her nipples ached for his touch and she could feel them acting as pushy as they knew how, thrusting forward, begging for attention.

But he didn’t rush there. Not yet. He continued his slow exploration of her body while she began struggling with the buttons of his black dress shirt, fumbling in her need to see him, touch him, taste him.

When at last she had his shirt open she understood her own haste. The man was gorgeous. Tanned skin that suggested he loved the outdoors, muscles that confirmed he was athletic. He helped her pull the shirt all the way off and she wondered if carrying heavy trays of food and drink had built up his arms like that. She suspected other, more vigorous pursuits.

Other than the perfect thatch of chest hair that continued in a coy line to disappear into his pants, he had no distinguishing marks. No scars, no tattoos, no piercings.

She placed her open mouth on the hot skin of his chest and felt the strong pound of his heart against her lips. While she was over there, she tackled his belt buckle. He kicked off his shoes and dealt with his socks while she worked his zipper carefully over an impressive package.

He cupped his hands over hers for a moment and held her in place for a moment. His dark eyes held her gaze. “Are you sure about this?”

She squeezed gently. “I’ve never been so sure about anything,” she whispered.