wide in wonder.
“My gypsy blood,” he teased, but in truth he'd remembered she'd mentioned it once years ago and it had come to him like some flashback as he was standing in the hall talking to the waiter. She'd always eaten it at her grandmother's, she'd told him then.
“I love you,” she said, her heart filled with inexpressible affection.
Carey arranged the food on the bed, and they tasted everything, kissing between bites, feeding each other a spoonful or forkful if a flavor particularly appealed to them.
Carey stopped eating first and lounged on one elbow, watching her. The whiteness of her robe heightened the fairness of her hair, its simplicity enhanced the clarity of her beauty-her small, straight nose, the pink opulence of her well-formed mouth, the Scandinavian classic purity of her cheekbones and her eyes, heavily lashed and blue as a summer sky. If he wasn't so selfish, he'd put her in one of his movies; but he was, and he had no intention of sharing her with the world.
She reached over for a strawberry, and her robe fell open slightly, the fullness of her breasts briefly revealed; the creamy texture of her skin a subtle contrast to the immaculate whiteness of her robe. White but not white, warm and soft and touched with rosy iridescence. He felt his erection rise. When she put the strawberry in her mouth whole, he experienced a rush of heat racing through his veins.
“Are they good?” he asked, content and happy, knowing he would touch her lush creamy skin, feel its smooth warmth, and feel himself inside her.
Molly turned to him and nodded, her mouth still filled with strawberry. Her smile was an upcurving of red lips damp with strawberry juice.
He couldn't resist. Stretching up, he tasted the sweetness of her mouth. “They are good,” he agreed a moment later. He returned to his lazy sprawl, the pulsing of his arousal keeping time with his heartbeat.
“Aren't you hungry anymore?” Molly asked, tiny flutters of desire distracting her own appetite.
“Depends.” His entire body, lean and tanned and minimally covered by a robe made for a much smaller man, was invitation.
“On?” She knew the game, and relished the soft promise of the sound on her lips.
“What you have to eat.”
His dark eyes were half-closed, and she wondered if that seductive glance was intrinsic or learned in bedrooms all over the world.
She moved her hand in the minutest gesture, indicating the trays of food spread on the bed. Her own seductive smile was indeed inherent and natural. Without the virtuoso practice of his.
“We always did get along,” he murmured. He could feel the heat rising through his body.
“At least in bed,” she replied in a husky contralto.
He glanced at the food, then at her. “Was the sorbet good?”
“It was cold,” she softly said.
“Did you like the chocolate mousse?” The rich resonance of his voice stirred all her nerve endings to life.
“It was too dark.”
They weren't talking about food; they were talking about unhurried intoxication… heedless of the world around them. Their world had narrowed dramatically to two people, very close, on a small portion of a large bed.
“I've never eaten rice pudding.” He hadn't moved, not a muscle, not an eyelash, and then one dark brow lifted in query.
“You'll like it,” she said.
He moved then with a swift, fluid grace, and cleared off the bed of trays and dishes. Almost cleared off the bed… except for the pudding.
His bronzed skin seemed darker against the white terry-cloth robe, his hair more golden in the half-light of evening. His eyes were the midnight black of velvet dreams. They were her tiger eyes, their tempestuous beauty mixed with a moody restlessness mirroring his mercurial nature. And they were smiling for her.
When he untied his robe, shrugged it off, and dropped it to the floor, her pulse responded with its own internal storm. His wide muscular shoulders exaggerated his height, and he was solid strength and lithe elegance in such perfect balance, the symmetry of nature deserved blushing honors. He was much too beautiful.
And when he moved toward her and lowered himself to the bed, a rush of flickering shocks trembled through her body. She felt defenseless in a splendid, flaunting way, waiting for him to touch her.
He picked up the silver bowl of pudding and handed it to her. “Hold this,” he said, placing the small ornate dish in her hands and closing her fingers around it with a gentle pressure of his large hands. “And then I don't have to reach for it.”
Her body reacted instantly to the scented tenor of his voice and the intimate suggestion of his words, and her hands trembled slightly holding the bowl.
“Don't drop it,” he murmured, steadying her arms with his palms. “I need that.”
The rice pudding was prepared more elaborately than her grandmother's, folded into rich whipped cream and then frothed into a smooth, fluffy cloud. A faint fragrance of cinnamon drifted up from the bowl.
“Am I going to like it?” Carey asked, observing the direction of her gaze.
Her thick lashes lifted, and the intensity of her blue eyes held his for a moment before she said, “I'm sure you will.”
“You have some first,” he said softly, scooping his index finger into the fluff and bringing it to her mouth.
He waited the merest fraction of a second until she opened her lips as though yielding to his silent directive, and then he slid his finger into her mouth. She felt the small invasion with a responding heated flame deep in her stomach, and he shut his eyes for a brief moment of pleasure when her lips closed over his finger. “You're warm and wet,” he murmured, sliding his finger out again and dipping it once more into the pudding. And he rubbed the sweet whiteness over her lips this time, then bent to lick it off. He sucked on her bottom lip first, and then her top while she sat very still and let the throbbing between her legs inundate her mind.
“You taste good,” he whispered, his tongue drifting over the curve of her upper lip. “Do you taste good everywhere?”
“I hope so,” she breathed, her eyes audacious with lust. “I truly do…”
“Would you like your robe off?” It was a gentle query with a faint dulcet undercurrent of command.
“Yes,” she answered. “And hurry,” she added with an imperiousness of her own.
He laughed. “And if I don't?” he inquired.
“I'll kill you.”
His eyelids drooped in insolent reply. “Your loss,” he said softly.
“I'm still holding this bowl of pudding,” she threatened.
“Which I'm sure you'll enjoy later, if you see things my way.”
“How much will I enjoy it?” she inquired.
“A lot,” he promised, unabashed at his proficiency.
“You're pushing it, Count Fersten.”
“I know. You're extremely hard to push… it makes the game so much more fun.”
“I'll get you for this.”
He smiled. “Maybe.” He touched her cheek with the lightest fingertips. “You look hot.”
And she was. She was so damned hot it brought back memories of high school when you'd pet and play and never consummate the ardor because everyone was too young to know what to do. But your body would throb for hours afterward, on fire for an elusive release. But it was no longer elusive, and she wanted to feel the fevered, hot-blooded liberation, and she wanted right this very moment to
As his fingers touched the ties of her robe, she moaned, a low, whimpering sound of wanting. She felt the searing path of his hands over her breasts a moment later, as he eased the garment off, taking the bowl from her briefly so she could free her arms.
He painted the crests of her breasts then, quickly and delicately, with the creamy froth as though he had a job to accomplish. She was both unnerved and tantalized by his detachment, as though she were a human sculpture he was decorating with skill and finesse. His touch was sensitive as he smoothed the creamy confection over her nipples, and he smiled as they hardened and distended beneath the cool dessert like crowning ornaments swelling for him.
But when he bent his head a short time later to taste his handiwork, he was no longer concerned with haste.
