Our laughs tangle between our mouths at his ridiculous statement.
“You did not burn it.”
“Well it’s not here.” Grip sits down in the lone chair, spreading his thighs and grinning. “I guess you have to sit with me.”
He grasps my wrist and tugs me forward until I’m standing between his legs. I shake my head, smiling inevitably, and settle onto his lap.
“This could get awkward and messy.” I twist to get my plate and make room for all of our food on one side of the table.
“Think of it as food foreplay.” He pulls me back until I feel him hard and poking in the crease of my ass. “See? It’s working already.”
I wiggle in his lap, drawing a laughing “shit” from him as we dig in, reaching around each other to get to our food, eating from each other’s plates, one feeding the other, spilling food and wine all over the place. It’s a five-course meal with all the courses squeezed onto our little table at one time. It’s an orgy of decadent tastes and consuming conversation, the words flowing as smoothly as the wine.
He’s asking for every detail about Kai’s release, about the days we were apart, and I’m demanding everything he can tell me about Dr. Hammond’s class. The name Iz peppers every other sentence, flavoring our discussion with Grip’s admiration and something close to awe.
“I think I’m jealous of Dr. Hammond.” I shift on Grip’s lap, feeding him chicken with greasy fingers. “I hope he hears my name as much as I’m hearing his.”
“More.” Grip eats past the meat to capture my finger in his teeth, tracing my fingerprint with his tongue. “He’s sick of hearing about how wonderful you are.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.” I pierce an asparagus spear on my fork and shove it into his mouth. “I bet your leg has gone to sleep.”
“Not my third leg.” He chews the crisp vegetable, stretching to grab and tear a roll down the middle then work it past my lips, laughing when I choke a little. “It’s wide awake.”
I grind my ass over that third leg, satisfied by and hungry for the stiff readiness behind his zipper.
“You made a mess.” Voice stripped of pretense and body tired of waiting, I tip my glass of wine toward the stain on his vest where the chicken’s rich burgundy sauce has left a splotch.
“Yup,” he agrees, eyes locked with mine. “I should take this off.”
He slips one button and then the others from the holes until his vest falls open.
I scoop up some of the sauce with my spoon, bringing it to my lips, but at the last minute allowing it to dribble on my silk blouse.
“Oops.” I breathe into the small space separating us. “So should I.”
I grab the hem of the stained shirt and pull it over my head.
He swallows loud enough for me to hear it. His jaw tics and his eyes roam over my naked shoulders and stomach, over the breasts barely contained by strips of silk and lace. He takes my glass of wine from me and goes to take a sip, allowing just a few drops to land on his shirt. I reach for it, fingers fumbling at the buttons, laying bare the sculpted plane of abs and pecs.
“Are we ready for love now?” I lick the heady traces of wine from my lips.
“Mrs. O’Malley said we have to dance.” His words are a dark- timbered rumble laced with want as he shifts me off his lap to stand. I press myself against his chest, grabbing his shirt by the lapels and shoving it down his arms to the floor.
“There’s no music.” I trap my bottom lip between my teeth and look up at him through my lashes because I know that drives him crazy.
He reluctantly steps away from the heat our bodies share and crosses over to the wall. With the press of a button, music wafts from the hidden speakers. The music is sensuous and whispers sex before the singer delivers the first lyric.
“Prince?” I ask, surprised. I recognize the iconic voice, but not the song. “What is this?”
“‘Adore.’” Grip lifts my arms around his neck and hooks my wrists there. “One of my favorites.”
“I’ve never heard it,” I murmur, barely aware of saying anything. I’m entranced by the intensity of his stare. He cups my jaw, drawing me closer until all our bare skin presses together and all our covered places strain against our clothes, seeking out naked skin and heat. We sway to the music, our hands moving over each other in a dance of rediscovery. He palms my hip, sliding down to hold my ass through my skirt. My fingers wander over the ridges and dips of his torso, rendered in stone. I run my thumb across the fullness of his bottom lip, tracing the lines that are so precise it’s like an artist drew them.
God, this man’s mouth.
I reach up to kiss him, slowly exploring the warm silk interior of his mouth, our tongues like the tide, pushing in and flowing out. We trade moans, our mouths sharing the soft, needy sounds. Our hands pick up pace, mine urgent at his waist, undoing his belt, his fumbling at my back, unsnapping my bra. It’s a quick, thorough disrobing that leaves us naked in the moonlight, half-drunk on the stars with Prince on repeat.
“Now?” I pant at the right angle of his jaw, dragging my lips over his neck and licking at the saltiness of his clavicle. “Time for love now?”