He took her silence for assent, pressing her arm before he headed up her hallway. As he stepped into the kitchen and living area, she saw him give the latter a quick glance, then he disappeared left.
Not sure how she was feeling about all of this, she went into her room to freshen up for dinner. She was used to men taking charge in the "I'm Tarzan, you Jane" way, not the "Okay, I'm going to take care of all your domestic needs, so you just relax, find your paper and pu
t your feet up" kind of way. It didn't feel like a role reversal, like he was trying to be a woman. Nothing about Noah said woman to her. In fact, she was a little turned on by how he'd done it, not taking no for an answer, determined in an relaxed way that made it pretty much impossible not to follow his direction.
The weekend was going to be an experience.
*
She'd gone into her craft room and spent a little time setting up what she'd do after dinner. It was an exercise in self-restraint, since what she really wanted to do was hang over the kitchen counter and watch him doing whatever he was doing. Eventually that desire, and appetizing dinner smells, won out.
Working for the tea room had given Gen such an educated and sensitive nose, she noticed aromas far more acutely, and it was impossible to ignore the olfactory temptation of spiced tomato sauce and bubbling cheese. When she came to the kitchen, she found more than one temptation waiting there.
He'd set the table and was taking the lasagna out of the oven. The ribbed fabric of his dark tank showed his lean, muscled physique, as well as the bump of his nipples. When he bent to pull the lasagna out of the oven, she got a distracting view of his ass flexing under worn denim, his shoulders doing the same as he put the tray on the stove, turned it off, transferred the two pieces to plates.
"You could have used the microwave."
"Oven keeps it warm longer. Makes it bubble better."
Yes, it did. She preferred to do it that way herself. He'd put the salad in a bowl with tongs, arranged the dressing options next to that. He'd even toasted some of her sliced bread. The smell suggested he'd added a light layer of garlic and butter to them.
"I'll gain weight with you around."
He gave her an amused glance. "My Mistress makes me work out with her sometimes, though it pisses her off that I can bench press more than she can. Claims God is an insecure, sexist bastard. I tell her she's too competitive."
He pulled out a chair and gestured to Gen to take a seat in it. As she approached, she caught his scent, distinct from the dinner aromas. Some of the molasses-wood Ceylon tea fragrance had lingered, but it was mixed with that seawater smell and his own unique blend, something that made her want to inhale deeper, press her nose against that pocket between his collarbones, the base of his throat. Some of it might be Lyda, an intriguing mix. She remembered that combination of female sweat, soothing moisturizer, lip balm.
Maybe Noah wore one of those male body sprays that included pheromones. That was the excuse Gen gave herself when, instead of putting her hand on the chair, she put it on him.
It was just his side, beneath his arm, but when she felt the firm flesh beneath the thin tank, her fingers tightened on him. Her gaze fluttered up to his, and suddenly her throat was tight. What was she doing? This man...technically he belonged to another woman, right? Yet the signals they both sent...it was confusing.
A hell of a rationalization, wasn't it? All she had to do was open her mouth and ask the question, but asking the question meant she had a reason for asking it. Caution first. Always. She didn't want to ask anything. She wanted to touch. Just touch. That was okay, right? It wasn't like she was touching anything...wrong.
Okay, another rationalization.
One he allowed her, because as her hand tightened on him, he straightened, squaring his body more with hers. Studying her face, he reached down, retrieved her other hand, and placed it on his other side. She stared at her hands, resting on his upper abdomen. She spread out her fingers, her thumb following the line of the lowest bone on his rib cage, then up to the one above it. Cotton fabric, so soft and thin, molded his shape. She could gather it up in her fingers, touch bare flesh.
As if he could read everything in her face--or maybe he wanted to be touched--he put his hands between them, took the hem of the shirt up and over his head, getting rid of it. A simple movement, no excessive flare to startle her into thinking this was about to accelerate to an act she didn't want to commit. It just gave her more access to what she wanted to touch. Now she was staring at his chest. He was about half a head taller than her, but she kept her chin tilted down, still looking at her hands, resting on bare skin. He had no tattoos on his front, but she expected he had them somewhere. All men under the age of thirty seemed to these days.
He had a light mat of brown chest hair that tapered to a bold arrow between his defined abs, headed for his groin. She didn't let her eyes go that far. She couldn't believe she was doing this.
"Noah, I shouldn't... Lyda."
"I'm here for you, Gen. She gave me to you for the weekend."
Whoa. Stop. Back up.
She did so literally, stepping away from him, though her palms itched with irritation at her, wanting to be right back where they'd been. "What?"
"There's no obligation to it, Gen," he said carefully. "I'm here to be whatever you need. Tile your floors, paint your walls. But if you need me other ways...I'm willing to be that as well."
"She just...loans you out?" Gen's shock turned into something far different. "You don't even know me."
"No. It's not like that." His voice was instantly resolute, eyes reflecting the spark she'd seen when he and Lyda had their exchange about his stubbornness. It reassured her, somewhat. He paused, sighed. "I'm sorry, Gen. I'm used to being around Dommes. Mistresses. Those who understand the boundaries, the way this works. I should have brought it up earlier, maybe in the car when it was more neutral, but until you reached out to touch me like this, I wasn't sure if it was going to be an issue. But I could feel...something, when you looked at me. You intrigue me, as much as you do my Mistress. Like I said."
The sudden, very male look of awareness coursed through her blood, but Gen pushed it away, trying to get a handle on this. She wasn't sure why she was so agitated, but she was. "So you're her Welcome Wagon? Or her bait? Works out well for you, doesn't it? I mean, what guy turns down getting laid as often as possible?" She took another step back. The lasagna was likely getting cold. They should eat.
His flash of chagrin made her wince at herself. He'd been nothing but kind and respectful. But she had no frame of reference for this except a history of men who looked out for their own interests, especially when it came to sex.