Melted and Whipped (4 page)

“Can you carry these?” He slides two plates, two red cloth napkins, and two sets of silverware onto the counter. “It’ll save me a trip. This way.”

I follow him out the open side of the kitchen, toward the window. We enter a dining room with a table long enough to comfortably seat the entire U.S. Olympic alpine ski team.

A fancy centerpiece of candlesticks surrounded by holly adorns the end closest to us. Porter lays down two red cloth placemats and a trivet, on which he places a glass bowl of stir-fry.

I begin to distribute the place settings while Porter returns to the kitchen. He makes about six trips in all, and even though he tells me to sit, I hover uncomfortably to the side, my mind still buzzing from that kiss. Why did he do it?

The answer seems obvious: because he wanted to.

He’s not the same as he was in college. He’s even more self-assured, which I hadn’t thought was possible. It makes me unsure of myself, like there’s a predetermined amount of confidence that can exist between two people, and Porter has taken it all.

I learned a lot about men through my twenties, and while a big part of me only wants to know what Porter is like in bed, another part of me already knows I’ll be disappointed with just a one-night fling.

After all these years, it’s possible that the fantasy is better than the reality could ever be. I never thought of it in these terms before, but Porter is the perfect man in my memory, an unattainable ideal that no one could possibly live up to. What if he’s bad in bed? What if he’s a selfish lover?

Worse, what if he’s amazing, but then he disappears? He’s successful, rich, powerful. It’s insane to think his interest in me is anything more but casual. Really, with so many tourists in town with their families, and so many of the transplanted locals out of town, it’s not like there’s much choice for a man looking for fun between the sheets.

The wine isn’t helping me sort through my jumbled thoughts. As soon as I reassure myself on one front, the assault starts again from another angle.

If only this weren’t Porter, but some other gorgeous millionaire. No, billionaire. He was already a multimillionaire before college, thanks to the family fortune.

I snort. There aren’t many gorgeous billionaires to be found, and why can’t I enjoy the evening? I wish I weren’t buzzed.

Porter pulls back two chairs, and I slide into the closest one, leaving him to sit at the head of the table.

“This is amazing,” I say as he serves me jasmine rice and fragrant stir-fry. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure. But you should know that I can only make two other things. Three, if you count pancakes.”

“Pancakes definitely count.” I reach for my glass, but Porter places his hand over mine.

My gaze lifts to his. Have I had so much to drink that he needs to cut me off? I’m buzzed, not drunk, and I could have another glass—especially while I’m eating. Unless he’s planning to kick me out in an hour, I’ll be sober by the end of the night.

“I think you should stop,” he says evenly.

My face burns with shame. Was the kiss that bad? At least now I know where he and I stand.

“I’m not sure what’s going through your mind right now,” Porter says, “but I should be clear about why I’m asking you to stop drinking.” His hand slips under mine, and his fingers tighten, pulling my palm into his. The gesture is intimate. He’s staring at me like he’s weighing something.

Shaking my head, I say, “Porter, it’s fine. I understand. We have a lot to discuss and—”

“You don’t understand.” His fingers tighten. “I need you to stop because I want you.”

I want you.
My lips part as I stare at him. His expression is so serious, I must have misunderstood…

Porter’s fingers tighten around mine. “I want you in my bed, and I want to do things… things that will require your consent. Slow down on the wine for now.”

A smile of relief relaxes my face. I don’t want him to know how insecure I was about his intentions, so I blurt, “Things that require my consent?”

“What?” he asks, the corners of his own lips rising. “What’s so funny?”

If I weren’t buzzed, I wouldn’t say it, but I am, so… “Things that require my consent? Sexual things? Or do you want me to sign a contract? Fill out financial forms?”

He smiles, but I can tell he’s being polite. A long moment passes while his gaze roams slowly over my face.

“Sexual things,” he says in his seductive, deep voice.

Like spanking?
I want to ask.

Oh, God, this is happening… assuming I don’t do something to screw it up.

Porter walks into the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water.

When he sits, he asks what I like about my job.

I think I give him a coherent answer. It’s difficult to know for sure because I can’t stop thinking about what’s going to happen after dinner. I can’t stop smiling, which is stupid, like I’m a teenager, a college freshman all over again.

Porter doesn’t seem to have any problems concentrating. “What’s your endgame?” he asks. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

It’s a sobering question, or maybe the wine is wearing off already. He looks very interested in the answer, so I try to pull myself together.

“It depends on the day of the week,” I say. “When I’m feeling optimistic, I imagine opening my own company, catering to tourists. Leading tours. I’ve got some connections, a few repeat customers who would follow me if I struck out on my own. But even if they all showed up every year, it’s not enough to live on. It would be a struggle.”

“And on other days?”

“Isn’t this a bit heavy for Christmas Eve?” I smile.

“You don’t have to answer,” Porter says.

I fork up rice drenched in sauce and try to decide if I should tell him. In the end, I figure I’m coming off as needlessly coy. “Other days I think I should invest in a tin cup, a cardboard sign, and fingerless gloves,” I admit. “When I came out here, it was supposed to be temporary while I figured out a better career. I even kept paying rent on my apartment back home for the first five months.”

Porter leans to the side, his broad shoulders turning to face me, one of his arms draped over the back of his chair. He’s getting comfortable, settling in to listen. It’s a pose I recognize, one I remember from our freshman year of college.

For all that’s different about him, he’s still Porter.

“Are you thinking about leaving?”

I sigh. “I’m addicted to powder. Just like it says on the novelty T-shirts. After my injury, I thought it would be too painful to be in the mountains, but the opposite turned out to be true.” Geez. I sound like someone who doesn’t want to grow up and get a real job.

Porter is nodding, but I’m feeling over-exposed and uncomfortable.

“We should talk about Scooter,” I say, and take a hasty sip of water.

“Scooter?” One side of his mouth quirks in a crooked grin. “Please don’t think less of me, but that was a ruse to get you to agree to dinner.”

Pleasure floods me, but I’m determined not to start grinning again like an idiot. I shake my head in faux disappointment. “You said my boyfriend had nothing to worry about.”

For the first time, uncertainty flashes across Porter’s face. “I checked around and heard you were single,” he says. “It must be a new relationship, then?”

“No, no boyfriend,” I say far too quickly. Damn. I really have no game. Then I process what Porter just admitted. “You checked around?”

He shrugs. “I wanted to know. Actually, I assumed you were seeing someone, but you aren’t wearing a ring, so I figured it must not be that serious.”

I’m flattered by the things he’s saying, and I’m dying to ask him why. Why me? Is he just horny? Bored?

Or does he actually like me? Does he count the brief time we were close as important? If so, why did he say it wasn’t a good idea to go out with me?

And does he know it was me outside the theater that night?

“You’ve never been married?” he asks, pulling me back into the conversation.

I shake my head. “I dated one of the other instructors for a bit, but he wanted to go to Jackson Hole, and I wanted to stay here, so we broke up.” I twirl the stem of my empty wine glass. “That’s your cue to say he was a fucking idiot.”

“I didn’t realize I needed to state the obvious. You know what I thought when I saw you yesterday? My first thought?
Finally
.”

“Finally?”

He leans forward. “When we first met, when we were hanging out all the time, I thought we were…” He trails off, then grins. “Now I wish I were drunk so I wouldn’t feel stupid admitting this, but it was a long time ago, and we were young, inexperienced. At least, I was.”

Sliding my arms on the table, I prop my head in my hands. “Please tell me,” I plead.

A strange look crosses his face. “Ask again.”

I frown, then decide he’s playing a game. “I would love it if you would please tell me the thing you don’t want to admit.”

“That’s unimportant. I need to tell you something else.” The look on his face tells me he’s not joking.

That makes me sit up straight and pull my arms in like a chill has come into the room. “What is it?”

“Adult things. Perhaps it’s better if I show you.” He stands and holds out his hand.

Even though I’m a little worried, I don’t hesitate to place my hand in his. This is Porter, and even though I barely knew him years ago, I understood him. He’s changed, but he’s the same.

Anyway, I think I know what he wants to show me. Gathering my courage, I ask, “You’re into handcuffs and whips and all that, aren’t you?”

He spins me around, pushes me up against a wall. His body pins me in place. My heart pounds in my chest, and it’s not because I’m afraid.

Through our clothes, I can feel the outline of his erect cock.

Porter’s cock.

I’ve fantasized about it plenty. Well, not his cock specifically, but what he can do with it…

His hand slides under my blouse, and his fingers brush across the small of my back. Then he’s moving down, greedily grabbing.

I gasp, my arms coming up to circle around his neck, to meet his kiss. This one doesn’t start off sweet. There’s hunger there, his and mine. I pulse my hips against the hardness in his pants, and I can tell he’s big, thick.

It’s what I wanted, but I didn’t dare hope. It wouldn’t have been a deal breaker.

I’m smiling with a mix of triumph and anticipation, which makes it impossible to kiss Porter back.

He’s pulling my leg up, his warm hands on my bare thigh, and then his bulge is pressing right against my pussy, with nothing but a few thin layers of clothes between us. My entire body shudders, then begins to tremble lightly. The soft noise I made when he kissed me in the kitchen is back, but it’s louder, hungrier.

I’m not smiling now.

Porter releases my leg and ends our kiss. He rests his forehead on mine. “You asked if I’m into whips and chains and all that,” he says. “I am. I don’t want to scare you away, but I learned a long time ago that it’s better to say it up front than to drop hints after two years.”

Two years. That’s about how long he was with his first college girlfriend. But dropping hints? I don’t remember that at all. He’s probably not talking about me.

“I’ve never tried it,” I say hesitantly.

“Most people haven’t,” he says, and I think I detect a trace of disappointment in his voice. “Is there a reason?”

The room feels like it’s spinning. How can I explain that I didn’t want just any man to try it with? That it was something to think about alone, late at night? My tongue is thick in my mouth, but I force myself to talk… and more, to say the truth. “I’m willing to maybe try it, maybe,” I say. I know I sound unsure of myself, but it’s only because it’s terrifying, all this at once. Finding Porter again, the kisses, the sex… the kink.

“Listen. I… like you, Emily, and I certainly don’t need to tie you up tonight. Or any night,” he adds. “If you don’t have experience with that, it doesn’t make sense to jump into the deep end.”

“Okay,” I say. Disappointment frays at my courage. I told him I wanted to try the kinky stuff, and now I feel like he’s turning me down. Again.

He’s quiet for a moment. “We don’t have to do that, but you should know I’m dominant. Long before I first snapped cuffs on a woman’s wrists and ankles and chained her to a wall, I was dominant. I prefer to be on top. I like to pinch, to spank…” He meets my eyes.

My gaze plunges down. It feels too late to admit that I saw him that night.

He tilts my chin up again. “I’m going to hold you down and fuck you roughly, and I’ll make you beg. Even if I set out trying to do the sweet, gentle thing, it somehow always ends up… otherwise.” He releases me.

The force of my need makes me dizzy. “Hold me down,” I say, dropping my gaze to the floor. “I’d like that.”

I’m barely aware of my surroundings as Porter leads me through his mansion. If I had to find my way to the front door in a hurry, I wouldn’t be able to do it. We go up a dozen steps, then down a hallway, carpet over wood. Most of the mansion is dark or dimly lit. It smells of pine and sometimes like smoke from the fireplaces. The furniture is more practical than decorative.

He pushes open a bedroom door, flips on the lights, and motions for me to enter.

The first thing I see is the bed. California king, almost as big as my entire apartment. Its frame is dark wood, with an imposing headboard and footboard. The dark blue bedding’s paisley pattern has a light sheen that makes me want to touch it.

The bedside tables, sturdy chairs, dimmed floor lamps, decadent Persian rugs, abstract art, curved screen television… It’s all tasteful, but I barely see it. My attention drifts back toward the bed.

The door closes, and I jump, startled, my already racing pulse doubling.

“I’m going to undress you,” Porter says.

I suck in a breath as his fingers find the top button of my blouse. Slowly, he exposes my lacy black bra, then my stomach, and he slides the silky garment off my shoulders.

“Hold this,” he says.

I take it and bring my hands up, unconsciously wanting to cover my bra, my breasts, but Porter pushes my hands down. He steps in close, the nearness of his body an intimate promise.