He seems surprised. “What for?”
I gesture to the dinner, our almost empty plates, the vineyard, the darkening sky. “Today has been amazing. And not just today,” I add. “Ever since I met you…I don’t know, I feel different, somehow. More alive.”
I can’t believe I just said that, but St. Clair’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Today’s not over yet,” he says in a sexy, low voice.
I flush.
He begins to gather our empty plates.
“Let me help with that,” I say, picking up the salad bowl. “I am, after all, the most experienced waitress in the house right now.”
In the kitchen, we pile dishes in the sink. I begin to rinse them off. “You don’t have to do that,” he stops me, reaching his arms around me to turn off the water.
I freeze, his body pressed gently against my back, his breath warm at the nape of my neck.
“I don’t?” I can feel the heat of his body against mine, the sweet smell of his aftershave as he lifts my hair off my shoulder and drops a kiss on the side of my neck.
I exhale in a shiver.
“You’ve done enough for me today.”
My breath catches as he spins me around to face him, his blue eyes piercing. “Let me do something for you,” he says and he kisses me, slow at first and then deep, his lips demanding against mine until I open and let him in.
His tongue teases me, and I wrap my arms around to his muscled back and drag him closer. Our kisses become faster, deeper, and I’m shocked by the feelings racing through me. The fire, the heat, the connection, the need.
It’s like nothing I’ve felt before.
His hands grip my hips and pull me gently into him. He grazes his lips down my neck, over my shoulders, down to the neckline of the dress, sending shivers down my body, goosebumps across my skin, every inch of it aching to be touched, stroked.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, easing back to cup my cheek and gaze into my eyes. His eyes are dark with lust, the same desire ricocheting through my body and gathering into a knot between my thighs. “I want to look at you.”
He slips his hands under the straps of my dress, lifting them off my shoulders. I meet his gaze, and he steps back to watch as I push the dress down my hips and it slips down to the floor.
I catch a shaky breath. I’m standing here in just my lace panties and bra, but I feel worshipped; adored. St. Clair looks at me so reverently, I feel like a work of art.
He leans in and kisses a trail along my collarbone, his hands moving to stroke and cup my breasts. I moan at the delicious contact, arching against him.
“Your turn,” I gasp, reaching for his shirt. I undo the buttons and push it aside, kissing the expanse of golden muscular chest until St. Clair suddenly lifts me and carries me to the dining table. He lays me down, so I’m spread to him, on display, and my stomach flips again.
As anticipation races through me, St. Clair takes his time, clearly enjoying the way he’s going so slowly. He leans over and removes my bra, glides his mouth over my left nipple, teasing at the right with his thumb. I moan as he toys with me, trailing his lips and tongue down my stomach and across my hips. He uses his teeth to tug the top of my lace panties down, then hooks his thumbs under the elastic band and pulls the them off, leaving me entirely naked.
I’m too caught up in the heat of it to care, feeling every touch and kiss like wildfire on my skin. He slides his fingertips up my thighs, and I feel like my cells will burst with desire.
He nudges my legs apart and I’m close to begging him to touch me. Please, just touch me. Still, St. Clair keeps up his slow and steady pace. He kisses my thighs, teases the sensitive skin with his tongue, slipping his hands under my ass to cup the cheeks. He drags his tongue up my inner thigh, slowly, up, up, until finally he slides the wet tip lightly along my clit, just grazing like the lightest brushstroke. I groan, arching my back and he dips his tongue deeper into me this time. “Yes…” I whisper, reveling in the sensation.
His hands keep me pinned in place as his tongue slowly strokes over me again, then again, an artist fervent in his work, painting with thick, long, wet strokes, becoming more and more impassioned. I arch my back to meet his mouth, spread my legs as his tongue paints me with his vision. Slick and kinetic shorter strokes, harder strokes, building the paint in layers, the pressure building, tightening, pulsing, rising to a throbbing peak…OhGod. OhGod—
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
I cry out, calling his name as the climax rips through me, sweetness and heat exploding in a dazzling masterpiece that leaves me breathless, spent. Undone.
CHAPTER 11
I roll over and stretch out in the softest sheets I’ve ever been on, but they are unfamiliar. I hear a shower running and my eyes shoot open, taking in a big bed in a plush bedroom, and an en suite bathroom letting out soapy-scented steam. Then it all comes flooding back: I’m at St. Clair’s. Charles’. The man who gave me the best orgasm of my life last night.
My cheeks heat up as I remember it all, every last detail, and I feel the flush moving lower as I imagine returning the favor someday.
But maybe this was just a one-time thing? I don’t have much experience with those. Just once, with a guy I met at a party my first semester at college. I was so embarrassed afterward that I left his dorm at five am and did the walk of shame home as the sun was beginning to rise. Here, I don’t have that option, because I’m lounging in luxury, literally, in million thread count sheets in a king-size bed on the Napa estate of a billionaire. What have I gotten myself into?
Charles is humming in the shower, a tune I don’t recognize, and I can’t help but smile. Adorable. He’s clearly relaxed, which makes this whole what-the-hell-do-I-say-to-a-guy-who-has-heard-my-O-noises-but-doesn’t-know-where-I-live thing extra awkward. The shower stops and I wonder what I’m going to say to him. I wish I could read his mind.
“Hey,” Charles says, coming out of the bathroom looking devastatingly sexy with just a towel wrapped around his waist. His chest muscles are perfectly shaped, leading down into abs chiseled from stone, a trail of hair leading down even farther. It’s the first time I’ve seen him shirtless in the light and I’m worried I might start drooling. “Did you sleep okay?”
I swallow. “Yes, great. Thank you. ”
He rubs a smaller towel over his wet hair. “It sure sounded that way from your snores.”
I gasp. “I don’t snore!”
“You do,” he grins, tossing the hair towel into a hamper, his other towel slipping low enough for me to see his the top of his hip bones. “Quietly. It’s adorable.”
I frown. “Yeah. Like ‘picking your nose’ is adorable.”
“Wait, do you do that, too?” He smiles and I throw a pillow at him, laughing.
He goes into a huge closet, with hanging suits and a dresser and more that I can’t see from the bed. “Listen, I’d love to stay and eat breakfast with you, but I have to get to L.A. for a meeting,” he says. “My car is waiting for you downstairs to take you to the city. You should be back in time for work.” He comes out of the closet wearing slacks and an unbuttoned blue shirt, four different ties draped over his arm. He holds them up against his shirt. “Which do you think?”
“The blue,” I decide.
Charles grins. “Of course.”
“How many do you have in there?” I ask.
He laughs, shaking his head. “Why? Are you going to ruin all of them? Maybe I shouldn’t leave you alone with all these innocent victims.” He flashes me another grin just as my stomach rumbles.
He laughs again. “Perfect timing. I’ll see you downstairs.” Then he disappears out the door.
I get dressed quickly, use the bathroom to freshen up, and head downstairs just as he is coming out of the kitchen with a thermos of coffee, a warm croissant wrapped in wax paper, and a bottle of orange juice. He tucks them into my purse with a wink.