She looked around. “This is a beautiful kitchen. You must be a great cook.”
I laughed. “Are you kidding? Marjorie is the cook in the family. I have a personal chef who comes in once a week and prepares and freezes meals for me. I think tonight is beef stroganoff.”
“Still, it’s a gorgeous kitchen. Nothing like that tiny galley kitchen of mine.” She scanned the room, zeroing in on the island. “Your granite countertops are gorgeous.”
“You’re gorgeous.” I backed her up against the island, turned her around, and unzipped her dress. Then I slid it over her shoulders, breasts, and hips. I turned her back to face me.
“Beige cotton bra and panties again, Melanie?” I licked my lips. “Lace and silk certainly has its place, but nobody does cotton like you.”
She reddened, biting that gorgeous lower lip of hers. “I guess I’ve just never been the extravagant type. These do the job, and they’re affordable. And quite frankly they’re a lot more comfortable than all that lace.”
I grinned from ear to ear. “My God, you’re adorable.” I set her up on the counter.
She squealed when her thighs hit the cold granite.
I relieved her of her boots and spread her legs. “You’re wet. I can smell you.”
She reddened even further and continued to squirm.
“I could rip the cotton panties off you like the other night. What a shame that would be. Then I would owe you two pairs of panties. And I always pay my debts.” I slipped one of her bra straps off her shoulder, inhaling the lavender of her neck. “And Melanie,” I whispered in her ear, “I won’t be buying beige cotton.”
Definitely not. Satin and lace for Melanie Carmichael—green or black or—God—purple. She’d be great in purple.
She moaned when I thrust my tongue into her ear canal.
“You like that?” I asked.
She shuddered. “Oh, yes.”
I plunged into her ear again, letting her squirm, and then I nibbled on her earlobe, swirled my tongue over the shell of her ear. I blew on the wetness. She shuddered some more.
I pulled back then, looking into her green eyes. “I’m hungry. I’m having you for lunch.”
I dived between her legs, finding my wet prize. She smelled and tasted sweeter than cherry wine. “God, you are so hot,” I said against her thigh.
I shoved my tongue into her wet heat, slurping on her, eating her cream. Then I nibbled at her clit, and she shivered, her thighs trembling against my cheek.
She was ready. She was ready to come. So I thrust two fingers into her pussy, and she clamped around me. I reveled in her response, taking in every sigh, every moan, every sob.
“You like that, baby?”
She moaned in response and arched her back, her eyes closed.
I continued thrusting, flicking my tongue over her clit, until another orgasm started.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Let it go.”
As I said those last words, I understood why she was here. She had to let go of something. But I knew all too well that this was only a temporary escape. We would have to talk later.
I thrust one more time, and then I let her come down from her release. I stood, pulling her toward me, and lowered my mouth to hers.
“Kiss me,” I said. “Kiss me and taste yourself on my tongue.”
She moaned into my mouth, opening for me instantly. Our tongues whirled and swirled together. Her kisses were addictive, raw and addictive. I couldn’t wait any longer to have her. I slid one hand down her arm, down her thigh, to my crotch. God, I was hard. I unbuckled my belt and unsnapped my jeans, pushing them down just far enough for my cock to spring free. Still kissing her, I thrust violently into her pussy.
Her soft groan vibrated against the inside of my cheeks and my tongue.
I broke the kiss to take a necessary breath. “You like that, sweetheart? You like my hard cock in your hot pussy?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her breath wafting over my cheeks like a cool breeze. “I love it. I love it.”
Love. She hadn’t said she loved me, but hearing that word from her lips sent warmth right into my heart.
Was I falling in love with Melanie Carmichael? Could she possibly be falling in love with me?
Sex had never been so intense for me, even though she hadn’t let me do everything I longed to do to her in the bedroom. But sex wasn’t love. Even really good sex wasn’t love. Was it?
Hell, I knew nothing about love. Until I worked through the guilt that hung over me like a vulture, I had no business loving anyone.
But God, something about Melanie Carmichael made me crazy. When I had seen that friend of hers, that Oliver, with his mouth on her, I had wanted to grab him with my bare hands and strangle the life right out of him.
I thrust again and again into her. When the tiny convulsions began in my balls and at the base of my dick, I pulled out and thrust one more time into the woman who had come to mean so much to me. I groaned against her, releasing my load, seating myself to the hilt until the spasms finally stopped.
When I withdrew, her head was back, her eyes closed.