Blackjack and Moonlight: A Contemporary Romance (15 page)

“No, I want to do this.” He picked up a plate and held it just above her chest. “It occurred to me last night that you might enjoy a lesson in the sensual qualities of food. Appearance is one, of course, but sometimes we look at food in too cursory a fashion. Our brain sees food and we eat it without considering anything else about it.”

“Yes, and—?” she prompted.

“Shh. I want you to taste food as if you’ve never eaten it before. I want food to surprise you and please you. Will you let me feed you, Elise?”

She jerked slightly, as though he’d jostled her. “Yes, of course. Just hurry up.”

“That’s what I need to teach you. Sometimes it’s good to savor something and not just rush on to the next thing. Here, open your mouth.”

She sighed, but opened those lush lips. He slipped a spoon in.

“Mmm,” she moaned.

“What do you taste?” he asked.

“Strawberries and whipped cream. And something else—I know, strawberry shortcake.”

“Very good. If this had been a lightning round in a blind tasting, you’d have won. But it’s not.”

He loaded another spoonful, just with strawberries. “Open,” he said. And then, “What do you taste now?”

“Strawberries,” she said quickly. He could see her mouth working more slowly, tasting the fruit instead of merely eating it. “There’s alcohol. And something else, something brighter than the berries. Orange zest? Or lemon. I’m not sure.”

“Lemon juice. Very good. Now try this.” He took a tiny wild strawberry that he’d dipped in a bit of chocolate and popped it into her mouth. She looked like a baby bird with her lips open like that. He ached to kiss her berry-sweet mouth.

“Yum. Chocolate and strawberry. Wait—the strawberry is different. Smaller. And juicier.”

“It’s a wild strawberry. Okay, one more thing.” He popped in a cookie about the size of a quarter.

“A cookie. Oh, wow, that’s delicious. It’s the best chocolate chip cookie I’ve ever had. What makes it so special?”

He took her blindfold off. “Nothing. It’s just tinier. And I used good butter.”

Elise sat up on the bed, cross-legged. She looked at the tray. “But it’s such a great cookie.”

He reached out to smooth her hair, messy from the blindfold. “Maybe. Or maybe you actually took the time to taste it.”

She grabbed his hand and nibbled on his fingertips, which were stained with chocolate and strawberry juice. Her lips curved up at the corners. The feel of her tongue on his flesh inflamed his desire, not that it needed any encouragement.

“Here’s, my question, Jack. Why are we in your bedroom? I’m pretty sure you could have fed me bits of food downstairs.”

“I haven’t had
my
dessert yet.” He looked into her eyes, watching for her to get his innuendo. “And for my dessert, you may want to take off those delightful undies.”

“Not a problem. Anything to help the chef.” She tugged the panties off and lay back on the bed. “My body is available, Your Honor.”

“Saucy woman,” he growled.

“You’re the one with a silk blindfold in his bedroom. I’m pretty sure I’m just being a good guest.”

“Well, this is about the visual power of food. You have the most wonderful skin I’ve ever seen. It reminds me of a white chocolate ganache.” He ran his hand lightly over her torso, from the small of her neck down between her gorgeous breasts, over her tummy and just brushing the tips of her sandy brown curls. “Chefs know that presentation is a huge part of the complete experience for the person eating the food.”

He scooped up a strawberry slice and placed it in the concavity below her breasts. He topped it with a bit of the whipped cream. “Beautiful,” he whispered, then leaned forward to slip the fruit into his mouth. He licked up the extra juice and cream.

“Aw, let me play too,” she pleaded.

“I doubt even you’re flexible enough to eat this,” he said, concentrating on placing dollops of cream just where he wanted them—on the tips of her breasts.

“No, I—oh, God, Jack, that’s so good.”

“I’m glad you’re coming to appreciate the visual power of food.” He ignored her whimpers of protest as he dripped strawberry juice onto her mons so that it ran down to mingle with her own cream. He was really going to enjoy getting every last drop. Her legs moved restlessly, parting as he licked along the crease between hip and thigh. Her whimpers became keening cries. He could hear her fingers scrabbling at the sheet.

It only seemed polite to bring her to orgasm. He wanted to do it quickly so that he could get naked and let her join in the fun. Elise was all for it, it seemed—she arched her body taut and made that sweet noise as she came.

Jack stood and admired her cherries-and-cream complexion, flushed and replete, as he got undressed. Her eyes, normally bright and intense, were sleepy and staring at him. He half expected her to yank at his clothes if he took too long, Either she’d learned some patience or he was faster, because she didn’t move. She made a satisfied noise when his boxers came off. Her arms welcomed him to the bed.

When he lay down beside her, she pushed him over onto his back. “My turn, I think,” she said as she smeared whipped cream on various parts of his cock. “I love dessert.” Her hair caressed her jaw as she bent to her task. “And I always lick the plate clean.”

Elise watched a flicker of light on the ceiling of Blackjack McIntyre’s bedroom. Her body was limp from the sex and warmed by Jack’s body heat. Her mind had never seemed further from sleep.

She kept picturing the redhead from the art gallery. How many women came on to Jack? How many of those invitations did he accept? How many women had been here, curled up next to him? How many had gotten the house tour, or heard the family stories about Dorian Fitzgerald and his four wives?

More to the point, how many women had gotten to eat dessert in his bed? He’d made it seem like it was something just for her, to teach her to appreciate food. There was a ring of truth to that, mostly because Ms. Film-at-Eleven or Dr. Microbiologist would never be so gauche as to bolt their food or fail to appreciate a fine vintage.

She should go. She’d never fall asleep now, and thinking about Jack’s string of high-end girlfriends wasn’t making it any easier to relax in a strange bed. They hadn’t planned a sleepover, of course. Just a dinner date. But the thought of getting up and stumbling around for her clothes was unappealing. Maybe she’d just lie here for a few more minutes.

Had there been another purpose to the blindfolded dessert menu? Why did she get this feeling that Jack had her on project status?
Oh, look, here’s someone who needs to be groomed—taught to behave in a certain way.
Of course it had been fun and very sexy. And he was right, food did taste different when there was no visual cue. She’d learned something tonight—it was always good to learn something.

If, on the other hand, he was planning to shape her into the perfect girlfriend, he’d quickly learn she didn’t take direction very well. He’d drop her and move on to the next fembot on his list. Which was what she wanted, of course. Even if she’d miss the sex. Jack’s enthusiasm in bed almost matched her own. She’d actually picked up a trick or two.

Another thing—the nursery replaced the redhead’s coy smile in her insomniac picture frame—Jack had a nursery. A charmingly decorated nursery. Ready for a baby anytime in the past decade. Ten years and how many girlfriends? Why wasn’t this guy married and raising a brood of black-haired brainiacs? Weren’t any of the fembots good enough? Here was a man so certain at age twenty-seven he was going to procreate that he allowed the decorator to hire a muralist to do a charming pastoral scene. Which seemed odd as it rather limited his uses for that room. Anyway, how did a guy like that not end up married, with a clutch of rug rats a decade later?

Elise shifted on to her side, away from Jack’s sleeping body.

What happened to keep him unmarried? Best guess was that his first real girlfriend had broken his heart years earlier, even decades ago. College—no, wait. High school. He’d have gone to a prep school, of course—one of those places in New England that had its own campus and funneled people straight to Yale or Dartmouth.

She pictured Jack as a teenager. The same glossy black hair, but longer—she couldn’t wait to see him with longer hair—and less formal. An infectious grin, a sly sense of humor, and a towering sense of right and wrong. He’d have dated the perfect girl, the beloved only daughter of some industry tycoon or Boston Brahmin. She broke Jack’s heart.

Why? Who would dump a guy as great as Blackjack McIntyre?

Elise played with scenarios, trying to find something that made sense, that fit the facts. The girl was secretly in love with the chauffeur’s son—or daughter? Too old-fashioned—class distinctions were passé. And it couldn’t be that Jack’s prep school girlfriend was really attracted to bad boys. She dumps Jack to run off with some black-leather-clad, covered-with-tattoos biker dude? Nah—Jack would have seen through her in a minute.

It had to be something a lot bigger. Then Elise knew. The girlfriend had cheated on Jack, just a little bit, oh, during spring break. Because Jack had been scrupulous about contraception, when the girlfriend got pregnant, he knew it wasn’t his. He still offered to do the right thing and marry her. (Did kids make gestures like that? Elise didn’t care—Jack would have.) They fought about it for days, until the afternoon the girlfriend told Jack not to worry because the problem had “gone away.”

Jack must have been devastated. Sure, she had the right to choose. He’d been ready to father that child. He’d figured out how they could live together and raise a baby while he was going to school. Or he’d have put school off until the kid was old enough. He’d invested in a future only to discover that that she’d “taken care” of his future. Bitch.

That would have destroyed Jack’s heart. Even if it was just a story, it fit the facts. And if it wasn’t some perfect trust fund babe at a prep school, then it was some other girl at some other place. Poor Jack. No wonder he hadn’t found the right woman yet.

Elise had to leave. She couldn’t stay with him, especially not if his past could make her this sad. Adolescence sucked. She wished she could wake him and tell him to let go of what Blondie did to him. Just forget about it. It wasn’t worth sacrificing your adult happiness over anything that happened that long ago.

There was a clock on the bedside table by Jack’s side of the bed. If she shifted very slowly, she should be able to—three forty-seven. She couldn’t stay any longer. If she twitched the drapes a little, the moonlight should allow her to find her clothes.

She dressed in the bathroom, then hesitated by Jack’s side of the bed. He’d established a standard of decorum for leaving in the middle of the night, curse him. She didn’t want to wake him, so she leaned down and kissed his forehead with the lightest lips-to-skin contact she could manage. If asked, she could say she’d kissed him but he hadn’t woken up.

When she got downstairs, she left a note.
Thanks for dinner—and dessert!—E
. As she walked home, she thought about what color flowers to send. Yellow roses. An understandable impulse—yellow to match the empty nursery.

Sad.

When two dozen yellow roses arrived on Sunday, Jack was disappointed—a reaction so silly he had to laugh at himself. Oh, the flowers were gorgeous, but not as beautiful as Elise. Much nicer if she’d stayed the night. Somehow he’d imagined that anyone that uninhibited about sex would be able to sleep—enjoy actual slumber—with anyone.

And it hurt that she’d not included a card with the flowers.

He rearranged the roses in a cut glass vase he could remember his grandmother using, and put them in his library so that he could see them while he worked. Their sunny color contrasted nicely with the rainy May weather. When he got up to make his dinner, he felt sheepish, but he took the vase with him. He was walking past the nursery—its door still open a little—and he saw how well the colors matched.

Why had she sent him roses the color of the nursery? She’d freaked out when he’d mentioned children. He could have told her that he was okay if she didn’t want children. She was the only part of his future that was essential. Except she’d freaked out even more when he’d even started to say the word “love,” so that conversation wouldn’t have gone over any better.