He hadn’t tasted the food, hadn’t tasted anything except the memory of that kiss. The memory of the woman. He’d wanted her with an intensity that overrode all logic. Her name roared in his ears; he’d felt the imprint of her mouth on his. After months of not feeling like a man, what he’d felt in that dining room, watching her come and go, had been like finding water in the desert when you’d believed you were about to die of thirst.
Then, someplace between whatever it was she’d served and his men’s increasingly delighted comments about the new cook’s talent, the truth had rushed up and all but spit in his eye.
Wanting Lissa was the good news. But he couldn’t possibly have her. That was not only the bad news, it was the only news that mattered.
He couldn’t take a woman to bed. Not a woman who hadn’t been paid to pretend she wouldn’t be disgusted by what she saw once he got undressed.
He had never been vain.
Well, hell, maybe he had. Why not? He was an OK actor, maybe even a pretty good one, but he knew that he’d landed his first big part because of how he looked.
And he damn well knew what he looked like now.
So would a woman who saw him without his pants, which was why he’d left the table, walked away from the insanity of wanting what he knew he couldn’t have, and everything had been fine.
Maybe fine was overstating it, but it had been all right…
Until he’d heard her footsteps on the stairs and, dammit, why lie to himself? He’d never have heard them unless he’d been listening for them, every muscle, every neuron in his body attuned to the sound of her, the scent of her, and then he’d stopped thinking, he’d simply acted, left his room, headed down the hall and now here he was…
Here he was, Lissa in his arms. Soft and sweet and perfect.
Stop now, he told himself.
Instead, he slid one big hand down her spine, cupped her bottom, lifted her into him. He knew he was hard as granite and he loved it when she knew it, too, when she moaned softly, fisted her hands in his hair and whimpered as he deepened the kiss.
Stop now.
Instead, he let the taste of her flood his senses. Coffee. Sugar. A tantalizing whisper of spice.
Stop now.
Instead, he pressed his lips to her throat and when her head fell back, he kissed the pulse that raced in the tender hollow of her flesh.
“Yes,” she sighed, “yes, please, yes…”
His mouth captured hers again. And again. She was panting. So was he. He wanted her, wanted her, wanted her…
She reached back, fumbled with the doorknob, and the door, the goddamned door that had burst open a handful of hours ago, held fast.
He brushed her hand aside, gave the door one sharp rap and it flew open.
She gave a little laugh. God, he loved that laugh. Wicked. Knowing. Full of promise. And he laughed with her as they stumbled into the room together.
He elbowed the door shut behind them.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of the heavy snow that covered the yard and the land beyond it.
She reached for the light switch.
He caught her hand, brought it to his lips, kissed the palm.
Dark was good.
She wouldn’t see his leg in the dark because, yes, he was going to make love to her, yes, he was going to take her, have her, wrap her in his arms, kneel between her legs…
Kneel? You?
The little voice inside his head was low and cold and filled with venom.