I reach past her to pull a wooden spoon out of the crock of utensils. I slide it under her nose. “Disobey me again, angel, and the skirt comes off.”
I allow myself one more rub, molding my fingers around the lower half of her buttocks and brushing as far between her legs as the fabric will allow.
Then I release her and spin her around. Her face is flushed, pupils dilated. I can’t stop myself from claiming her mouth, tasting her sweet lips, giving her just a small sweep of my tongue.
When I break the kiss, she stares up at me, surprise making her blue-green eyes wide.
“Thank you for wearing the skirt, Marissa.” My voice sounds three times lower than usual.
I release her completely, not trusting myself not to throw her up on the counter and spread her killer legs. To make her forget about cooking and scream my name until she’s hoarse.
But I told her I wasn’t paying for sex. And she’s on my dime right now.
I wrap my arm behind her and cup her ass, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Capiche?”
She rubs her swollen lips together and nods. “Yeah.”
“Good girl.” One more squeeze. “What’s for dinner?”
“Dinner. Um, yeah.” She turns to the crate and starts unpacking it. “Almond-crusted salmon with a lemon-thyme sauce, and artichoke salad. You’re going to love it.”
“Oh, I have no doubt.” I lean a hip against the cupboards. I like watching her catch her stride again, moving from discombobulated to self-assured. It takes about ten minutes, but then she settles in, moving around my kitchen like she owns the place. Frying pan on the stove, cutting board and knife out, vegetables diced in neat piles.
“So white wine?” I ask. “Do you want to pick?”
She looks over her shoulder with an expression that gets me harder than marble. It’s bright-eyed pleasure. She’s all lit up, glowing from doing what she loves, and clearly happy I asked for her opinion. “Yes, what do you have?”
I pull three bottles from the wine chiller and set them on the counter. “You don’t get to call the shots at Michelangelo's, do you?”
She scoffs. “Not even what size to chop a vegetable.” I love the conspiratorial smile she gives me as examines the bottles. “I dare not vary even the slightest bit from what the chef prescribes.”
“That’s why you agreed to this.”
She selects one of the wines—an oaky Chardonnay—and hands it to me. “Well, yes. It’s fun to make my own menu. Especially with someone else’s money.” Her smug satisfaction transfers to me, filling and warming my chest.
I’m happy to be the guy who made her smug and satisfied. Who gave her the opportunity to show off and the money to spend.
“Speaking of which…” I pull out a wad of cash from my pocket and count out ten hundred-dollar bills. “This is for groceries.”
She closes her fingers around the folded bills but doesn’t take them from me, meeting my eyes on a swallow. She tries to hide it, but money excites her same as it excites most of the population. “For the month? Or do I just keep a tally and ask for more when this runs out?”
“For this week.” I know damn well she didn’t spend a thousand bucks on this week’s food, but I also want her to be compensated for her time, too. Yes, she owes me. But she also works damn hard, and I imagine this job took up the only spare time she has in her life.
Okay, yeah, I’m a softy.
I’m also showing off.
And I like watching her pretend she’s unaffected by it. Her pride is as sexy as those legs.
“Next time you buy the wine, too,” I tell her, like I’m being a hardass.
She inhales sharply through her nose and nods. “Gladly.”
“But if you don’t call me for a ride, the bill’s on you.”
There. That will get her. I don’t know—the wooden spoon might have been too much of an enticement. And I really don’t want her denying me the pleasure of keeping her safe.
The threat turns her on. I know because her nipples are visible beneath her bra.
She plays it tough, but she likes it bossy. Maybe because it gives her something to resist.
I uncork and pour two glasses of wine, but apart from tasting it and giving a nod of satisfaction, she doesn’t drink any more.
Which shouldn’t be such a disappointment, but it is. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I think it signals she’s not comfortable. She wants to keep her wits around me.
Of course, maybe she just doesn’t like white wine. Why not just ask? For fuck’s sake, I’ve turned into the biggest vagina.
“Not a wine drinker?”
She slides a sidelong glance at me. The kind that peeks under her lashes and looks both sly and demure at once. “I’m on the job.”