Maybe he does want me to use my mouth to talk to him.
Maybe he isn’t interested in my kisses or the ways I’d use it.
Except his eyes tell me otherwise.
For someone who’d been drinking the past few hours I suddenly feel very, very thirsty.
31
Alexander
I feel the weight of her regard almost physically. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to react to it.
To not place bread knife down.
To not slide myself between those jean-clad legs.
To not sate this need to devour her from the mouth down.
“So what do you want to talk about?” she asks, words spilling from her mouth so fast, they seem to run together. I glance her way and notice how her legs seem glued together from thigh to knee. Glued tellingly together in a very telling kind of position.
Fuck.
She’ll be wet, I know. Her body is so responsive. So in tune to her wants.
Turning back, I do place the knife down. Then I take a deep breath and begin to silently count to ten as I attempt to temper the demand swirling through me.
“Did you want to talk about Cooper?”
She really is ridiculous. As am I for acknowledging the flare of jealously that licks though me. I know logically she’s just trying to goad me, but I can’t help my first reaction: she didn’t answer whether she was seeing him again.
This is such bullshit. The way she was in my study, her mouth full of denials and her gaze full of sin. It’s me she wants, not some wanker in drainpipe jeans and a fucking Volkswagen Golf.
My eyes are drawn to her again, and though she’s a little more dishevelled that she was when she left the study, it means nothing. But as good as she looks sitting on the kitchen counter, I’m not a fucking Neanderthal. I don’t have to act on the impulse to fuck her on it.
Shoving the loaf back in the bag, I make my way over to the fridge and pull out the ingredients I need. Gruyere and ham. Dijon from the cupboard next to it.
“Did you want to talk about Cooper?” I throw the question over my shoulder.
“I don’t know him that well. But Emma says he’s a total bad boy.”
I almost snort. Maybe I should hand her a butter knife so she can lay it on a little thicker. As for Emma, whoever Emma is, she isn’t important to this situation.
“How so?” I begin to assemble the doorstop thick sandwich, then drop a chunk of butter to the frying pan. Turning the knob, the gas burner roars to life. “He looks a little old to throw tantrums.” Even if he looked to be nowhere near my age.
“What?” The word warbles with suppressed laughter.
“Does he scribble his name on the library walls?” As the melted butter begins to sizzle. I drop the sandwich into it.
“Not everyone has a library, your grace. But why do I feel like this is something you might’ve done?” The hair piled artfully onto the top of her head this afternoon now in disarray, Holland taps a finger to her tempting lips. “Though I imagine it was a few years before you had the nanny?”
“Sorry?” I bark out, my turn to be amused.
“You said back in London that I sounded like a nanny you’d once had. Had being the operative word.”
“How strange because I haven’t had a nanny since,”—I flip the sandwich—“last night.”
“You are so bad,” she replies, throwing a kitchen towel my way.
I catch it and place it over my shoulder, fancying I look the part. But I’m not bad, not at the minute, at least. What I am is gratified. Pleased she remembers, delighted it seems I haven’t been alone in reliving that night.
“For the record, you’re the only nanny I’ve ever had.” The only nanny I’ve ever wanted. Wanted like a drug. “As for badly behaved,” I add, dropping a dollop of Dougal’s béchamel sauce to the top of the sandwich before moving over to the oven. “I’ve never once defaced the library walls.”
“Hey, what are you doing with my sandwich?”
I send her an arch look along with my answer. “Elevating it.” At least, according to Dougal, who has made more of these than I can count in the wee hours of the morning after parties and overnight flights. It’s a novel experience to be on the other end of the spatula. Actually, I find it quite nice.
“It’ll be ready in a couple of minutes,” I say, turning back to her.
“What are we going to do for a couple of minutes?” purrs my kitchen coquette.
“Behave yourself, Olive,” I censure, leaning back against the counter. I cross my legs at the ankle and my arms across my chest for good measure. Lord, how I want her. But not tonight. Not now.
“I can’t believe you called me that!” she says with a delighted sounding laugh.