His big body felt incredible, his wide back pressed up against her, her breasts crushed to the solid muscle there, where she could feel every ripple and flex as he shifted the bike. By the time they pulled up in front of Jamie’s building on Kerlerec Street in the Seventh Ward, her system was trembling with need.
Jamie’s place was in one of the areas hit hard by Katrina, but the neighborhood was bouncing back nicely. His beautiful Victorian had obviously been newly repainted in contrasting shades of green, with the trim done in ivory and a rich brick red. It had a masculine sensibility to it, despite some of the more ornate woodwork. Masculine and homey.
Inside and up the stairs to the third floor flat and it was even more homey.
“Wow, Jamie’s done a gorgeous job here,” she said when she was standing inside the door of the flat.
“Yeah, he has, eh? Well, his brother Allister did most of the remodel, but Jamie’s too much of a control freak not to have had his hand in things. I’m fairly certain he made the coffee table himself from reclaimed wood.”
“Huh. That’s what my coffee table is made of.” She glanced around the inviting room, taking in the modern furnishings set against the old ornate crown moldings and the curved archways, along with a collection of vintage hubcaps on one wall. “Definitely a guy’s house.”
“Wouldn’t you be disappointed if you’d come here to find it filled with lacy doilies and . . . what are those called? Hummel figurines?”
She smiled. “I’d be shocked. Neither you nor Jamie are the lace-doily types. Far from it. I’m not the lace doily type.”
“No, just the lace-underwear type, which I happen to like. But”—he narrowed his eyes at her—“you weren’t supposed to wear any tonight. Did you?”
“You’ll just have to find out.”
He moved in and pulled her in tight, grabbing her ass through her silk dress.
“Hmm. Nope. Can’t say I feel a thing. Good girl.”
She couldn’t help the way her body went soft and liquid at the words, at the rough touch of his big hands, but he let her go and took a step back.
“Now, off to the kitchen with you, wench, and watch the master at work.”
“You’re a master chef, are you?”
“Nah. I just like to brag. But it sounded good, didn’t it?”
That made her giggle and shake her head as she sat on the stool he held out for her at the counter dividing the living room from the kitchen. It was a very male-looking space, too, with gray slate counters and pewter finishes. She liked it. There was a certain art to its simplicity.
Duff immediately began to move around the kitchen, pulling cookware from beneath a counter, olive oil and cooking wine from a wood tray next to the stove, which faced where she was perched on her stool. He grabbed a jar of crushed garlic from the refrigerator, as well as a bunch of fresh, fragrant basil, a container of heavy cream and a covered bowl, then opened a bottle of sparkling water, pouring two glasses and setting one in front of her. She knew there would be no wine with dinner—like most respected players in the kink community, there was no drinking before play.
“I hope you like pasta?” he asked.
“Everyone likes pasta. And I’m not one of those girls who doesn’t eat.”
“One more thing to like about you. What about spicy sausage?” He waggled a brow at her.
“Was that thinly veiled sexual innuendo?” she asked, leaning forward, her chin in her hand.
“Always with me, princess. But more specifically, it was a question about your taste in food.”
“I like pretty much everything. Except okra.”
“Haven’t I mentioned it’s a bad idea to tell a sadist what you don’t like?”
“No. No way. I’m calling a hard limit on okra.”
He mock-sighed. “If you insist. But I’ll hold it aside for later negotiations.”
She smiled at him, and he gave her a wink and went to work slicing the sausage, then sautéing it in the pan while setting a big pot of water to boil for the pasta. She liked watching him work, seeing how deft he was with his hands, and realized not only had he not been kidding about knowing his way around a kitchen, but wow, did the man have great hands! He was so sure of himself on every level—even in the way he chopped the basil or flipped the pan to keep the sausage from scorching.
“The secret,” he said, keeping his gaze on the stove, “is to keep all the ingredients moving. You don’t want the basil to brown, but to wilt the tiniest bit to release the flavor. And once I get the Alfredo sauce going, you can never let it rest, or it gets stiff.”
“Sounds like more innuendo.”
He glanced up. “Touché, lovely girl. But I like to think you hope so.”
“I do.”
He lowered the flame on the stove and moved around the counter, taking her chin in his hand and raising her face for a quick kiss. “You know, you set my blood on fire with your fire and sass. I like you, Layla.” He paused, looking down at her while her own blood heated and she had to cross her legs against the pressure building there. “Yeah, I do like you.” He gave her another brief, tantalizing brush of his lips before turning to move back into the kitchen and dropping some finely chopped garlic into the olive oil warming in a pan to start the sauce. He moved the garlic around with a wooden spoon, his brows drawn in concentration.
Hmm . . . wooden spoon. Maybe he’ll spank me with it later.
Something in her was loosening up. It was a process that had been happening since their first meeting. Maybe it was his good sense of humor, how he shifted from teasing to serious to pure, searing heat in seconds. Moments. He kept her head spinning, her gears shifting. And maybe it was calculated on his part, or maybe that was simply him, but it was working. Maybe a little too well.
The alarms in her head started to shriek distantly.
“Duff? Where’s the restroom?”
“Eh? Down that hall.”
She got up, trying to suppress the faint panic that had suddenly flooded her system as she made her way into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. The small room was as cozy as the rest of the house—small because most of the space was taken up by a big glassed-in shower stall done in green slate tiles. Standing in front of the mirror, she braced her hands against the edge of the sink.