THE NEXT EVENING, AFTER CHANGING CLOTHES twice and shoes three times, I settled on a basic black wrap dress and strappy black sandals. More party attire than business but I was willing to risk it if he was. I pulled into Marco’s driveway and surveyed the property as I pushed the button to slide the sunroof closed. I’d never been inside this house although I was familiar with the neighborhood. I’d done my research, though, and pulled the tax records. Five bedrooms, five baths, five million dollars. It was hidden in a neighborhood full of twists and turns that took full advantage of the waterside location. I knew he had bought the property after giving up a condo in town. Apparently too many parties at the condo were upsetting the neighbors.
He greeted me at the door with a kiss on each cheek. He smelled even better than yesterday. He had an apron on that said Kiss the Cook. I laughed.
“You like? My niece gave it to me for a Christmas present. She didn’t want me to ruin my nice clothes when I was at home. It does come in handy occasionally.”
“Is it like the cobbler’s children sometimes, that you don’t cook at home since you do so much at the restaurant?” I was used to making my own fare, because Alex would usually settle for a bowl of cereal when he was home. The food honeymoon had lasted about as long as the real one.
“I always cook at home, even if it’s just a simple pasta. Cooking is my life. I live it. Now come eat. We need to fatten you up.”
I liked the fattening up part. I could go along with that. He took my hand and pulled me into the foyer.
“I heard you’re not planning on sleeping with me.” He still held my hand. His was warm, but a chill went up my arm.
“No,” I replied, smiling. “Sleeping is not what I had in mind.”
He laughed and pulled me closer, taking my chin in his other hand, rubbing the tender skin underneath. His fingers were rough, covered with calluses and burns, old and new, but they gently teased my neck, trailing down to my collarbone. I met him eye to eye and tried not to giggle. It would have been seductive if it hadn’t tickled so much. He burst out laughing, hugging me to him and kissing the top of my head.
He stepped back to hold me at arm’s length. “You, my dear, are going to be the death of me. Come on, let me show you the house and then we’ll eat. Would you like a drink?”
I declined until all the paperwork was done. It was the usual tour of a gorgeous waterfront home with five bedrooms, five baths, gourmet kitchen, finished basement with in-law suite possibilities, the works. I thought we would get flirty in the bedroom, but Marco was all business until we were standing out at the poolside railing looking over the Severn River.
“I would never get tired of this view,” I said. From the back of the house was an Annapolis dreamscape view of the Severn River, the Naval Academy with its familiar green, copper-domed chapel, the Naval Academy Bridge upriver, then farther up, the Route 50 bridge. “I bet you have a great view of the Blue Angels during Commissioning Week.”
“Spectacular,” he replied. I turned and found he was looking at me, not gazing upriver as I had just moments before. A warm glow settled in my chest, and it wasn’t from the late summer heat. He reached out and gathered me in his arms, crushing my notepad between us. He kissed me and I opened my mouth, inviting him in. He tasted of honey with a back note of smoke. I hoped he appreciated the half box of Mentos I had chewed on the way here. He seemed to as he tugged my notepad away from me and tossed it on the patio, where it landed with a muffled thump. Padded leather is so much sexier than a hard clipboard. Speaking of hard, Marco was hardening and lengthening against my belly as we clung to one another. He bent me over slightly, tearing his mouth from mine, kissing my neck, which no longer tickled, running his hand down my back to cup my ass, then pulling my leg around his thigh. I was clinging to his shoulders, biting his neck—I wound my leg around his, thinking I would come in an instant if he made the slightest thrusting movement. But he didn’t.
He stopped kissing me, held me hard and still against him, panting into my neck, his hot breath against my pulse calming us both. I unwound my leg from his and loosened my passionate grip, running my hands down the sheer cotton of his shirt then onto the rough muslin of the apron. I stepped back and he let me go. He was bent over a bit, as if I was still in his arms. I nervously smoothed my skirt as he watched me. He finally straightened and stretched his whole body. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his neck. What was he warming up for? I thought we had already started.
He took my hand and kissed it gently, then, still holding my hand, he said, “Forgive me. I got a little carried away.”
I gave his palm a slight squeeze and pulled away. “I wasn’t having any problem with it.”
He laughed that deep rumbling laugh that always filled a room with contentment. Today it seemed to boomerang around the river, making me happy just to be here for this moment in time. He cranked open a canvas umbrella over the glass dining table and motioned for me to take a seat on one of the wrought-iron chairs, the blue-and-white-striped ticking cushion at least four inches thick. I picked up my notepad from where Marco had dropped it, and sank down in the chair.
“I’ll be right back.” He walked past the hibiscus-bordered hot tub, waterfall and pool combination and through the patio French doors. Before I had a chance to miss him he reappeared sans apron, bearing a tray with a bottle of champagne, two flutes and my personal, although according to Alex hokey, favorite appetizer of jumbo shrimp cocktail. There was also a small two-sided bowl, one half filled with assorted olives, the other left empty for the pits, and a small plate of fresh mozzarella and tomato slices drizzled with basil olive oil. As he placed the dishes on the table, he said, “The lamb is in the oven. I didn’t want you to get hungry.”
He must have been serious about fattening me up.
He reached for the champagne bottle and tore off the foil. I thought surely he would open it as Alex had instructed me long ago—twisting the bottle, not the cork, and loosening slowly, allowing just a small, discreet popping sound. No, Marco stood with both thumbs against the mushroom-shaped plug, the bottle poised over his groin, and let the cork fly into the air. Champagne gushed out, and he pushed it to my mouth, so I could suck it from the bottle. The frothing liquid spilled down my chin and onto my chest. Marco knelt before me and pushed my hands away to lick the sweet wine from my skin. One hand still held the bottle, while the other was at my knee, massaging my leg under my skirt.
I plunged my fingers into his black-and-silver mane, holding his head between my breasts, then running my palms down his back, feeling every muscle. He released the wine bottle to grip under my bottom and pull me forward so I was at the edge of the chair, my legs now wrapped around his torso, my skirt up to my thighs. His hands roamed up my spine as we kissed, not content with just lips to lips but lips to tongue, to cheeks, to eyes, to ears. He tasted of sunshine and earth and smoke. I pushed myself harder against him, squeezing my legs around his wide chest. His rough fingers pushed down the straps of my dress and bra, making my breasts spill out. Marco took what I offered, his fingers running across my nipples like fine sandpaper, then his tongue soothing, then teasing, then sucking. I bucked against his chest, longing to feel him inside me. Hard and deep and now.
“Now, Marco, now,” I gasped in his ear. He stopped, simply stopped, rocking back on his heels, releasing my legs wrapped around his middle. He ran his hands down the backs of my legs, gently setting my heels on the sun-warmed concrete. I wanted to hurl myself at him, thrust my breast in his mouth, demand that he suckle. Instead I reached to cover myself, but he took both my hands in one of his.
“Do you know why the man usually takes the champagne in his mouth?” he whispered, nuzzling at my breast with his Roman nose.
“No,” I croaked. My whole body was throbbing for his touch.
“Because men are greedy. They do not realize how one small thing can make a world of difference. Like the taste buds not only receiving pleasure, but giving pleasure. You taste of sweet honest sweat, an aphrodisiac to me. My tasting it gives you pleasure. Heighten that pleasure with one small thing.” He reached out and dipped a finger in the olive oil, smearing it over my puckered nipple with his rough fingertip. I groaned when the smell of basil perfumed the air as the oil heated. He pushed my hands between my legs, hard against my pussy as he pinched my nipple, once, twice, three times. I came in a moaning rush, falling against his shoulder as he kept caressing my breast, kissing my neck.
He sat back on his heels again, tucking my breasts back into my bra, pulling up the straps, caressing my shoulders. I pulled my skirt down to my knees.
“I will never look at basil the same way.”
He laughed and kissed me on the mouth, lingering. I had to grip the arms of my chair to keep from clutching at him.
“Who needs oysters?” he said, his voice husky with need. I reached for him, but he stood quickly, taking my hand in his. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “First course.” Then he turned to pour the champagne while I watched the muscles in his forearm move with the grace of a well-trained chef. I didn’t know food could be quite so entertaining.
He handed me a full champagne flute, then picked up his own.
“A toast,” he said. “To pleasure—in all its forms.”
“To pleasure,” I said as we gently clinked the crystal glasses together. I took a sip. It was smooth, barely sweet, with bubbles that foamed across my tongue. I blushed to think of them foaming across my chest.
I reached for my notepad and flipped it open. He simply shook his head, so I closed it and pushed it aside. It could wait. At least until after the appetizers.