A Taste of You (7 page)

“I have fun,” I said, through the strain of holding the Full Locust.

“You have watch-TV-in-your-pajamas fun, Cat. You need sweaty-roll-around-in-bed- with-chocolate-flavored-lube fun. Seriously, Cat. If you don’t get laid, I think you’re going to burst into flames.”

I laughed, losing what little concentration I had. Beckett wasn’t kidding, and I knew he was right. It had been a long time since I’d had sex. Yes, I’d had sex since Jace died, and I didn’t want to think about how long ago it had happened or whom it had been with. It had been horrible—truly sick-to-my-stomach, big mistake, what-was-I-thinking horrible. The instructor moved to the back of the room, a subtle warning that we were disruptive, and we finished the workout in silence.

Afterward, I showered and changed, and Beckett and I went our separate ways. The yoga studio was in the Gold Coast neighborhood, and even though it was cold, I decided to walk a bit and window-shop at the trendy, expensive boutiques nearby. After last night, I could use some distraction, and besides, I had nothing waiting at home except the dog. I didn’t want to dwell on hot bourbon and cold freezers all day.

But even window-shopping couldn’t get my mind off the man with the amazing blue-grey eyes. While William Lambourne was ideal in Beckett’s estimation, he was dangerous in mine. On paper, he might be the perfect rebound guy, but I could see myself getting too wrapped up in him. It wasn’t his money. I could care less about however many millions he banked, but there was that indefinable
thing
I felt with him. It pulled me in, he pulled me in, and I knew I could lose myself in it and in him.

I stopped to study a pair of black shoes in a window then moved on. I didn’t want shoes today.

One glance at the other women at the party last night made it clear that I wasn’t the only one he had this effect on. I was nothing special. Men didn’t routinely fall all over me. Why, exactly, was William Lambourne pursuing
me
? He was pretty direct about what he wanted to do with me and to me. Just sex, obviously. That might be fine for him, but I wasn’t sure I could do that, even if Beckett thought I needed a rebound guy. I’d never considered a no-strings-attached sexual relationship with someone.

I stopped again, this time in front of a lingerie boutique. I knew Beckett and my mother, God love her, wanted me to be happy. But dating wasn’t going to make me happy, and sleeping with someone just because the opportunity presented itself wasn’t going to make me happy in the long run either. The big issue was that I didn’t deserve to be happy. Why should I be happy after what had happened? I’d killed my husband. Yes, it had been an accident—a
horrible
accident, as my mother liked to say with added drama—but it wasn’t the kind of thing a lover or a potential boyfriend could look past. It was the ultimate conversation stopper and mood killer. “Hi, I’m Catherine. The widow. I’m twenty-five, and I was driving the car in the accident that killed the one person I loved more than anyone in the world. Do you want to fuck me now?”

I hadn’t told anyone since I moved to Chicago. I’d gone back to my maiden name and stopped wearing my wedding ring, so there was no reason for anyone to think I’d ever been married. I’d talked about Jace and the accident in my grief support group, but we’d all shared our baggage in confidence. Beckett knew, of course But since I’d left Santa Cruz, I’d never had to tell anyone new, anyone who didn’t already know my secrets.

No, giving in to William Lambourne would stress me out more than make me happy. But I knew what would make me happy, if only briefly. I stepped into the boutique and inhaled the scent of floral sachets and expensive silk.

“Can I help you with anything?” an attractive saleswoman in her mid-forties asked. I could see her studying me, probably thinking
dressed in black, conservative
—
cotton panties
.

“I want something sexy.”

She broke into a grin. “I have just the thing. Size six?”

She was good. “Yes.”

“And you look like a thirty-four C.”

“Right again.”

She nodded and led me to the back, where row after row of gorgeous, sexy lingerie hung on padded and beribboned hangers. I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out and stroking the delicate laces, the sheer meshes, and the soft silk. There was nothing like the feel of expensive lingerie against my skin. Except possibly, William Lambourne’s body. Shit. I could rationalize why he was bad news all day long, and that still couldn’t stop me from thinking about him.

“Any color choice?” the saleswoman asked.

I thought of last night. “Light blue.”

In the changing room, I undressed and reached for the matching icy blue bra and ruffled tanga shorts. They weren’t my usual style. I preferred thongs, but there was something provocative about the sheerness of the shorts and the way the ruffle teased. I liked the way the bra pushed my breasts up, giving me substantial cleavage. I traced the swell of my breasts with one finger, dipping into the bra. I liked the feel of the silk against my skin and felt my nipple harden against my hand. My nipples had been hard like this for William last night. Given a few more moments in that freezer, and I would have done anything to have William’s lips on my breasts. If he could kiss me senseless with that mouth, I could only imagine what that mouth could do to my body.

I leaned back against the dressing room wall. I closed my eyes, and I rolled my nipple between my fingers and squeezed it gently, sliding my other hand down my abdomen and into the shorts. It was easy to imagine my hands were William’s. It was William touching me, sliding the shorts over my hips and down my thighs, parting my legs then gently inserting a finger inside. I rocked back and forth as my own finger entered. I felt my slickness and heat radiating from deep within.
I am going to show you pleasure didn’t know existed.

The sound of the bell jingling at the shop’s entrance brought me back to my senses. Thank God, because I was—
hello
—masturbating in a dressing room. I was losing my head, and my body craved William in a way I’d never craved anything. I really didn’t need more lingerie, but I had to buy the bra and panties now. They reminded me of him, and that was probably a bad sign, but there was no way I was leaving without them.

I paid for the lingerie, unable to make eye contact with the sales clerk, my checking account groaning at the hit, then headed to my car and drove home. I had managed to unearth my vibrator the other day. I think it was time I gave it a workout.

Five

As soon as I stepped into my condo, Laird bounded up to me. He was dancing with excitement, and I barely had time to set my shopping bag down before I grabbed his leash and led him out. A brisk walk felt good, and this time I avoided the shops and the lakeshore and walked through the neighborhood. It was a quiet Saturday, and I enjoyed the sound of my boots crunching on frozen ground, Laird’s excited panting, and the bleating of car horns along with the occasional siren in the distance. Above me, the sky was remarkably blue and the sun shone. It still threw me when the weather was a contrast. In Santa Cruz, grey fog had meant cold, and blue skies indicated warm weather. I felt like I’d never be warm in Chicago.

I’d changed since I’d arrived in Chicago, too. I was paler now, my hair darker. I’d lost my surfer tan and the blond streaks in my hair. I thought my hair actually looked better without sun and saltwater damage, but I was still getting used to seeing my face without a smattering of freckles and a pair of sunglasses perched perpetually on my nose.

Finally, Laird began to flag—meaning, he stopped running full tilt and just galloped—and we headed toward the groomer’s, which was only two blocks from my condo. Today was his monthly appointment for a bath and the extras he loved. I had just handed Laird’s leash to the attendant and promised to pick him up in a few hours when my cell buzzed. I answered, tucking it under my chin so I could pull on my scarf and hat as I started walking. My hands were numb because I’d forgotten my gloves. Again!

“Cat?” a man’s voice asked.

“Hi, Dad!” I felt my cold cheeks break into a stiff grin. “How are you?”

“I’m good. I’ve been puttering around all morning, trying to figure out what’s missing.” That was not new. My father was nothing if not absentminded.

“Your glasses?” I suggested.

“No, Cat. You! It’s Saturday. We always had brunch together on Saturday.”

I felt a pang of sadness lance through me. “You’re right, Dad.”

“Did you have brunch with that friend of yours? What’s his name again? Bob?”

“Ha ha, Dad. I was with Beckett.” My dad had known Beckett for as long as I had and this was a running joke between us. The walk back to my condo was quick, and I was upstairs now. I shrugged off my coat and began pulling at my boots. “No, we went to yoga, but I miss you too. You should come and visit.”

“Maybe I’ll come when the semester is over.” My dad was a professor in the computer science department at UC-Santa Cruz. His whole life was semesters and exams and binary code. I thought sometimes he related better to computers than people. I don’t know what he and my mother ever saw in one another. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. My mother was beautiful and vivacious. I could see why men were drawn to her, but I don’t know what drew her to my father. He was quiet and serious and devoted to his work. He wasn’t rich or extravagant. Not surprisingly, they divorced when I was seven.

“Come for a week before the summer session,” I said, falling back on my couch from the exertion of removing the winter gear. That was one thing I never had to do in Santa Cruz. “I’ll take you to the lake.”

“I’d love that, honey. Are you doing okay?”

“Great.” I filled him in on the job with Willowgrass—leaving out the bits about William Lambourne—and told him I had an upcoming meeting with the Fresh Market people.

“Sounds like you’re doing well. Do you like Chicago?”

“It’s cold. But it’s growing on me.”

“You could always come back.” I heard the wistfulness in his voice.

“I wish I could, Dad.”

“And why can’t you? This is your home, Catherine. I never understood why you felt you had to run away. We could have faced what happened together. It wasn’t your fault. People would have come to see that.”

“Maybe, Dad, but Santa Cruz without Jace didn’t feel right. Everything is new here, and the scenery is different.” And colder. “I needed a change.”

He sighed. “Alright. Now, when should I come? Let me write this down…”

After I got off the phone, I was still cold. And my thoughts swirled around Stormy Eyes. My body craved him and I felt tense and edgy with pent-up frustration. I decided to warm up with a hot bubble bath and then find my battery-operated friend and orgasm until I couldn’t think about William Lambourne or any man for days.

I undressed to a pair of white lace panties and an oversized T-shirt that almost reached my knees. After I threw my hair into a ponytail, I reached for the hot water faucet as a knock sounded on the door. I guessed it was Minerva, since nobody could get upstairs without getting buzzed in through the front door, and I hadn’t heard the intercom. I knew she wanted to hear about the party. I’d tell her I’d come down later to chat. I opened the door. “Hi, Min—”

But it wasn’t her.

William Lambourne stood outside my door in the hallway, holding a tray of coffee in one hand and an aromatic bakery bag in the other. In the back of my mind, I was aware that I was only half-dressed, that my face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and my hair was up in a messy ponytail, but it was impossible to concentrate when faced with a man like Stormy Eyes. As usual, his eyes were what drew me first. They were clear blue today, like the sky on my walk. I allowed my gaze to wander over the rest of him.

He looked good. Really good. I didn’t know if it was the scent coming from the white paper bag in his hand or the sight of William, but my mouth watered. His hair was slightly tousled, and the curls fell around his face luxuriously. I felt the familiar impulse of wanting to run my hands through the thickness. I remembered how soft it had been last night. He hadn’t shaved, and the shadow of his beard made him look rugged, even hotter. His lips were curved in a seductive half-smile, but I had to skim over his lips, or else I would have been lost. Instead, I noted his buttery soft leather coat, open to reveal a grey T-shirt under a black V-neck sweater. His jeans were snug, showing off long legs, which I followed down to leather boots.

“Like what you see?” he asked. He was cocky. Who was I kidding? He was beautiful and irresistible.

“How’d you get up here? I didn’t hear the buzzer.”

“Your neighbor was going out as I was walking up, and she let me in. Guess she thought I looked respectable enough.”

Okay, so he had charmed Minerva with his dashing smile. Still, my interrogation continued, and I kept him standing in the hallway. “What’s in the bag?”

“Let me in, and I’ll show you. I might even let you taste it.”

I stood there, hesitating. Echoes of
The Three Little Pigs
whirled in my mind—
little pig, little pig, let me come in
. I understood how those little pigs felt when the big, bad wolf knocked on their door. And if the wolf had arrived with coffee and whatever the hell that bag held that smelled so sinfully divine, then they probably would have saved the wolf the trouble of blowing the house down.

Finally, I opened the door wider and moved back.

He stepped inside without hesitation, catching the door with the toe of his boot and shoving it closed. My condo suddenly felt far too small and warm. I realized I hadn’t moved aside, and we were standing close enough to touch. I was wearing just panties and an oversized T-shirt, which I clutched at the bottom, self-consciously pulling it down. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

“I hope you drink coffee.”

“Of course, I drink coffee.”

“I left it black. I don’t know how you like it.”

“You seem to know everything else about me.”

His smile widened. “There might be a few details I’d like to learn through experience.” He leaned closer. “So, Catherine, how do you take your coffee?”

I swallowed. “I prefer lattes.” What was I, ten? I was acting like a spoiled brat, but I couldn’t help it. My heart was racing as though I’d drunk five espressos, and I felt too warm, even though I wasn’t wearing enough clothing.

His grin widened. “You’re hard to please, aren’t you?” he said playfully, brushing past me and walking into my living room. His arm skimmed my breasts as he moved beside me, and I shivered. I hated to admit it, but I liked his playful side. I liked the boyish grin he’d flashed. It was the same one that had charmed me, against my will, last night.

I turned and saw him moving through my living room, past my desk and toward the kitchen as though he owned the place. It was infuriating. Who breezed into someone else’s home like that? But even worse than his nerve was the fact that he looked so good in my condo. He looked like he belonged there.

“Nice place,” he said, glancing at the framed photos and the throw pillows on the couches. “It looks like I imagined.” He glanced at me. “It looks like you.”

I wanted to ask what he meant. What exactly did I look like? But as he moved into the dining nook and then the kitchen, he halted. “Now this is unexpected,” he said.

I followed him and watched as he set the bag on my counter then moved closer to the cooker. “An AGA.” It was funny to see a grown man felled by my cast-iron kitchen contraption. He caressed it, his touch light and reverent. My body tingled just watching him. “I’m impressed.” He glanced around and spotted the huge Sub-Zero refrigerator. “Nice kitchen.” His eyes met mine. They were darker now, not quite so light a blue. “Very nice.”

The scent coming from the bakery bag drove me insane, and I nodded to it. “What’s in the bag?” I asked again.

“You’ll love it.” He opened the bag and moved it so that I could see inside. I stepped closer and swayed at the aroma of fresh-baked croissants and chocolate assaulting my senses. I closed my eyes and simply inhaled. It smelled so sweet, and I could feel the warmth coming from the bag. I knew the pastry would be gooey from the warm chocolate. I had never been so ravenous.

“It’s
pain au chocolat
,” he said, his accent impeccable. “It’s fresh from the oven, and the chocolate is infused with cardamom. It’s delicious—one of my favorites.”

My center felt as warm as the pastry, and our gazes met. We stared at one another for a long moment. Inside me, everything went hot and heavy. I was hyperaware of my sensitive nipples pushing against the cotton of the T-shirt, of the lace of my panties on the skin of my hip, of the smooth hardwood under my bare feet. My hands flexed, and I wanted to touch Stormy Eyes, pull that coat and sweater off, and run my fingers over his hard chest. As if reading my mind, he shrugged out of his coat, tossing it on the counter. He gave me a look, begging me to challenge him. I didn’t, of course. I wanted to be pissed. I wanted to tell him to go to hell for being presumptuous. I meant what I said last night. I couldn’t do this. But now, I was too excited to see what would happen next. I was far more aroused than pissed off. And maybe my anger was fueling the arousal.

“Lattes, you said?” he asked, breaking the spell so I could breathe again. I gulped air and nodded. To my surprise—though why anything this man did should surprise me was a mystery—he turned and opened my refrigerator. He peered inside at the pitiful contents—a Styrofoam container of leftovers, three yogurts, a bottle of decent wine, an apple, and various condiments. No milk.

Suddenly, I felt embarrassed. I hated to cook. I didn’t need to stock the fridge. But I was willing to wager everything I owned that William Lambourne’s refrigerator was never empty. I was sure he had gallons of everything from skim to buttermilk. I stormed over and slammed the door, an angry retort on my lips. “Look—” I opened my mouth to tell him to get the hell out, but when the refrigerator closed, a gust of cold air washed against my bare legs. My body trembled, and I remembered the way he’d kissed me in the freezer at Willowgrass the night before. I remembered the feel of his body against mine and the taste of the bourbon on his tongue.

I was lost, and everything I was thinking clearly showed on my face. Before I knew what was happening, William pushed me against the fridge, and then his mouth was on mine. I was enfolded in the taste of sweet, baked croissants and warm chocolate. His lips were soft and persuasive, and I couldn’t stop from opening to take him in. Our tongues twined, and I wrapped my hands around him, digging my fingers into his thick, rich hair, pulling him closer until he pressed against me. His kisses went from light and playful to deeper and more demanding, and I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

He pulled away, and I gasped for air, grasped for reason.

“Open your mouth.”

My gaze darted to his. His blue eyes were steel grey now. Even as I resisted his order mentally, I felt my lips part, and then sweet warmth exploded in my mouth. I groaned aloud at the taste of the
pain au chocolat
. I had never tasted anything so sensual, so rich, so addictive. I didn’t know if it was the food or the kiss, but I was on the verge of ecstasy. My whole body quivered, tensing, ready for more.

William slid another bite of the delicious
pain au chocolat
between my lips, and the second taste was as good as the first. The flaky pastry was moist, the chocolate gooey, and I could feel a dribble at the side of my mouth. I watched William’s eyes turn to liquid silver as he bent close and flicked his tongue out. Electricity sparked through me as his tongue teased and his lips nibbled, and then he bent lower, trailing a hot path down my neck. I couldn’t believe this was happening. This felt like some sort of dream, and I knew I should end it, but I couldn’t do anything but what he wanted. Everywhere his lips touched turned to fire. His arms came around me, his lips returned to my mouth, and I was so lost in his kiss that I barely realized we had slid down the fridge to the floor. Then his lips were back on my mouth, and his hands… his hands were everywhere. He had skilled fingers. Everywhere he touched left me wanting more.

I could feel the cold stainless steel of the refrigerator at my back, and William’s hot fingers trailed a path across my thighs. “Your skin is so soft, Catherine,” he murmured between kisses. His voice was low and husky. Hearing the need in his tone made me hotter. It thrilled me to think that this man wanted me. It made me feel sexy and powerful, even though I was completely at his mercy.