“You’re cooking with this wine? How much was this bottle? Wait, what’s the vintage? It’s worn off, I think.”
Darcy puts a lid on the skillet and turns down the heat. He also switches off the fan over the range, and it becomes insanely quiet.
I hear him sigh. Is he serious with that sigh? It may actually break my heart if he is.
“Corkscrew’s in the drawer, to your right.” Darcy’s staring at the oil, garlic, mushrooms and shallots simmer slowly.
“You don’t have cooking wine to use?”
Darcy turns to me, slowly. That mirth is back in his eyes. Thank goodness.
“Do you use cooking wine? I cook with wine that I would drink. I don’t need to, but I take the option.”
Uh oh. “I don’t cook with wine. I don’t cook…”
“In the kitchen?” The perfect interruption from Darcy.
I place the bottle as gently as I can on the island. “Oh, on camera, sure. In the boudoir, hell yeah. But food’s not usually involved.”
“I s
ee, you sustain yourself by taking advantage of rich suckers like me.” Darcy is somehow a few inches closer to me now, and I’m barely surprised; his moves are often stealthy. I have to look up a little to see his face now.
I feel his fingers and palm brushing against the top of my right hand, just slightly.
“N-no, I just order restaurant delivery online. Pizza, pad Thai, stuff like that. You know, saag paneer with garlic naan from the Indian place.”
As I talk, Darcy’s draws his face closer to mine at a graceful, steady pace. By the time he responds, his lips are nearly touching mine.
“So much salt. No wonder you like cooking wine so much.” Darcy’s whispers carry hints of anise and mint. I reach my hand over, just around Darcy’s waist, to turn off the burner.
Lizzie
“My shallots,” Darcy growls in complaint, even as his lips curl against mine while he steals a kiss.
I steal that kiss right back, only harder. This time, with tongue.
“Fuck your shallots.”
Darcy laughs, dipping his lips down to my neck. “I’ve never met a woman with such a vendetta against root vegetables before.”
“Yeah? Mmm,” I moan. Darcy is using his teeth, ever so lightly, on the soft part of my throat. It feels fucking divine. “Just wait until I regale you with the atrocities committed by the malicious chive.”
“Can’t wait,” Darcy deadpans. He cups my tits in his hands like he’s comparing two equally gorgeous cantaloupes. Suddenly, I get the feeling that he’s not talking about listening to me rant about alliums.
I lower my hand to his thigh and find the gorgeous bulge in his pants that verifies.
“Can you?” I ask, giving his hardening member an encouraging squeeze.
“Not in the slightest. Get your fucking shirt off.”
Smirking, I fumble with the buttons. I’m wearing a chic little white linen button-down that ties at the waist. It’s paired with a red velvet pencil skirt just long enough that it’s hard to tell if it’s made for business or pleasure.
In Darcy’s case, it’s both. Always both.
When I’m not fast enough getting my tits out for him, Darcy’s strong fingers push my hands aside. He rips it open, sending little golden buttons flying in all directions.
“My shirt,” I faux-pout.