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Weatherly is fast asleep on our clothes. Well, most of them. The majority of her creamy skin is covered in my silk shirt, but everything else is beneath her. I manage to extricate my slacks from under her right leg without waking her. As I pull them on, I stare down at her—at the beautiful face turned toward the rising sun, at the slim arm tucked under her head, at the spill of dark, thick hair spread out behind her. Damn, she’s gorgeous.
Is that what’s getting to me?
I quickly discard the theory. I’ve slept with gorgeous women before, so it can’t be just that. So then what the hell is it?
The answer: I don’t know. I don’t know what it is or how it is; I only know that it is.
Just standing here watching her is giving me a major hard-on. And she’s sleeping, for God’s sake. I wasn’t kidding when I told her that I can’t get enough of her. I really can’t.
I debate waking her up the fun way, but decide instead to creep to the house and get some breakfast to bring back to her. And then we’ll have another round of “fun,” before the rest of Chiara wakes up and our love nest isn’t so private anymore.
I carry my shoes out into the grass before I put them on to traverse the dew-covered field. At the house, I sneak in the back door, fairly certain that if William and Michael are up, they’ll be having breakfast in the dining room. Men like them don’t eat in kitchens. And I’m right. It’s deserted except for the same fiftyish woman who was here yesterday afternoon.
“Good morning,” I say as I make my way around to the pantry. I set about collecting a thermos, some Styrofoam cups and a small picnic basket, which rests beside the one I took on the four-wheeler and never used. I fill a clean dish towel with warm croissants and fill a plastic container with thick slices of warm ham and bacon. Lastly, I put a few cubes of cheese in a cup and pack it all into the basket.
When I glance up, the chef is eyeing me with something that looks like amusement.
“Breakfast in bed,” I explain.
“A bed outside?”
“The best kind,” I answer, grinning at her. She merely cocks a brow and resumes stirring a pot of . . . something. I bet those sharp blue eyes don’t miss a thing.
I set the basket on the counter and take the back stairs up to the room we share to use the bathroom and clean up a little before heading back. I’m standing, bare-chested, in front of the bathroom mirror brushing my teeth when I hear the door open. I smile, my hunger forgotten when I think about spreading Weatherly out on the bed and eating her instead. But when I rinse my mouth and step out into the bedroom, all I see is Cher. Naked except for her fiery red hair, which is obscuring part of her very ample breasts.
I stop, obviously surprised, and stare.
Before I can ask any questions, Cher makes her way over to me. Her hair shifts as she walks, giving me peek-a-boo glimpses of hard, pink nipples.
Oh shit.
“I think you might have the wrong room,” I say, retreating a step when she reaches me.
“No, this is definitely the right room. Your friend told me exactly which one you sleep in.”
“My friend?”
“Rogan.”
“Rogan,” I repeat. Damn him! He did send me a woman for my birthday. I wasn’t kidding when I told Weatherly I thought she was a gift from him.
“How did he talk you into this?”
“We cater events for the studio all the time. I’ve known Rogan and his girlfriend for a while now. I asked if he knew you, told him we were doing some work up here. He told me it was your birthday. And what you wanted. I thought we’d be the perfect fit, since it just so happens that I want it, too.”
She rakes her short, clear-painted fingernails down my chest as she says this.
“Look, I’m sorry that you went to all this trouble, but—”
Her smile tells me it was no trouble long before her lips do. “Believe me, this will be all my pleasure.”
I figured. I knew it when I first met her. Like I said, I can spot these women a mile away.
She leans into me, pressing her tits up against my chest and dragging the nipples from left to right. I wrap my fingers around her upper arms and push her gently away. I’m debating the best way to blow her off without pissing her off, if for no other reason than to keep this from getting any more awkward. Unfortunately, I’m still thinking when Weatherly opens the door and walks in.
Even though her hair is tangled, even though her clothes are wrinkled, she’s still mouthwatering. She still pulls my attention, my desire like no one ever has, especially with her eyes flashing like violet flames. For a few seconds, all I can think about is how much I want her.
It’s when the two bright red spots appear on her cheeks and her mouth drops open that I realize what her beauty caused me to miss initially. That fiery little spark in her eyes and that hot little flush to her cheeks aren’t the result of lust. She’s mad. Mad as hell. And I know exactly why.