I turn, tilting my chin to look at up him.
“Killjoy,” I all but whisper. His eyes are so beautiful. Like the sun on the ocean, flecks of gold sparkle within the blue. And while the way he looks at me should send me running for my room instead it sinks hooks into me, anchoring me to the spot. “No kilt tonight? Now bow tie?” I flick the collar of his open necked shirt, unable to stop myself.
“Last night was the formal dinner. This evening was a quiet supper with friends where your absence was remarked upon.”
“Yeah? By whom?” Check me and my perfect English out.
“Matteo and Van, my friends. And by Ivy Duffy who I think might be under the impression I’m a threat to you somehow.”
“I don’t know why. I haven’t even spoken to her. How’s Portia, by the way?”
“I imagine she’s fine and back in London by now.”
She’s gone? Stupid heart, get back to your place, rattling around behind those ribs!
“Who was your friend?” he asks suddenly, and I’ll credit him as trying to keep his question casual, despite the muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Who? Cooper? Just some guy I met in the pub.”
“Does he have a problem with his laundry?” I tilt my head, not catching his meaning. “I’m assuming that’s the reason for his incredibly tight clothes.”
I fight a budding smile and lose. “Yeah, I noticed, too. Didn’t you know men who look like that are supposed to wear clothes that look like they’re painted on?”
“I suppose regular fitting clothing chafes their soft skin.”
“I can ask him next time I see him, if you want.”
“You’ve plans to see him again?” His hand slips from the chair, my body blooming as it lands on my hip. Blooms and falls as he moves me to the side to reach his glass. “Sit down. I’ll make you some something to eat,” he murmurs, turning away from me.
“Maybe I don’t want to eat,” I say, following him across the kitchen like a puppy desperate for attention. “Maybe I don’t want to sit down, either.”
“Where is the bread kept in this place?” he murmurs, ignoring me.
“It’s in this one.” I tap the cabinet next to his shoulder then jump up onto the kitchen countertop next to him. I slide my hands under my thighs as a means of not touching him. Should’ve stayed on the other side of the kitchen, the little angel on my shoulder whispers. Unfortunately, it’s the devil I’m listening to. A devil named Olive, it seems who’s reminding me that Alexander is leaving tomorrow, and by the time he comes back, I’ll be gone.
Once more for old time sakes.
The last chance saloon. Or kitchen.
“I thought I told you to sit down,” he grumbles.
“I am sitting,” I say, swinging my legs to the side and back again. “See?”
Alexander smiles though he tries to hide it as he pulls out a loaf of bread. “I meant on a chair.” He sides open a drawer, pulling out a bread knife.
“So conventional,” I scoff. “Whatcha doing?”
“Cooking.”
“I’m not hungry.” Not for bread, anyway.
“I wasn’t asking.”
I sign huffily, my shoulders dropping along with the noise. “Are you always such an ass?”
“I don’t know, Holland,” he answers, his blue eyes blazing as he turns to face me, knife in hand. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“I haven’t known you long enough to collate the relevant data regarding your assholery. You are, however, grumpy in the extreme tonight.”
His sardonic huff of laughter raises goosebumps along my arms.
“If you must know, I’m making you a sandwich because it’s clear you need something to soak up the booze.”
“Oh.” That’s kind of nice, right?
“And to give you something else to do with your mouth,” he then adds in that velvety voice of his.
I suck in an offended breath, probably to hide how that totally and inexplicably turns me on. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That it’s clear you’ve followed me across the kitchen because you want to kiss me.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I do have the data. You are an asshole.” My retort sounds like it should finish up with me sticking out my tongue.
“Look,” he says, turning to me again. “It seems you’re either hiding from me or people are trying to drag you away, so I think we should take this late-night opportunity to talk.”
Talking isn’t for late nights, unless it’s the pillow kind.
For a moment, I wonder if I’d said that aloud as Alexander keeps his eyes from me. Almost deliberately. But maybe it’s because he can sense I’m watching him. His shoulders are so broad, and my hands know how the muscles in them are so tightly defined. I swallow as his bicep bunches and the tendons in his forearm tense as he slices through the loaf of bread. All I can think about is how I want to put my fingers there and feel the movement as I ride his hand.
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.”