Look away. No, enjoy. No, look away. Finally she did it. She instigated a mental no-peeping-at-the-guest policy and looked away. “Shouldn’t you get dressed before we eat?” Uh-oh. She’d just shredded the napkin in her lap as her foot tapped against the table leg. The stress of not climbing into his lap needed an outlet it seemed.
“Nay. This is appropriate attire for one’s home, is it not?”
“I guess so.” But how was she supposed to concentrate on food when she had a buffet of masculinity at her disposal? Because yes, her no-peeping policy just got nixed.
The jerk didn’t have a problem concentrating. Whistling under his breath, he piled his plate high with salad, bread sticks and pasta. His facial features remained so relaxed, she suspected he might fall asleep.
Throughout the meal, she repeatedly checked him out from under her lashes. His small brown nipples puckered from the cool air. His muscles flexed and unflexed with his every movement. Faint scars here and there. Perfection. She imagined running her palms over his abdomen as he unfastened her jeans, tunneled beneath her panties and slipped a finger inside her.
Shivers wracked her. Then his knee brushed hers, and balls of fire rolled through his veins, scorching everything in their path.
“My apologies,” he muttered when his knee brushed her a second time.
“No problem,” she managed.
When he did it a third and fourth time, the fire blazing out of control, Julia dropped her fork with a clank and drew in a shaky breath, mentally counting to ten. One…two…three…sex…sex…
Her every nerve ending vibrated with sensation. When she realized she was caressing a bread stick—and Tristan was watching her do it—her face heated.
“You have no liking for the food, draga?” he asked, all innocence.
Draga—a shortening of dragon, just for her? “No. I mean, yes. It’s fine.” Did he know what he was doing to her? No, he couldn’t. He was too busy eating the entire pan of lasagna.
Concentrate. You are not a nymphomaniac, as much as you might wish otherwise. She trembled as she lifted the fork and feigned interest in the food.
Twice she managed to steal another peek at him, and twice more he casually bumped her with his leg. He still looked completely relaxed, at ease, while she grew hotter and achier.
His damp skin beckoned, and he wanted to wipe away every drop of moisture. His mouth needed a deep, wet kisses.
She wanted him, was just about to leap over the table and rip the towel away, when the doorbell rang. Saved! She dropped the fork and jumped to her feet.
“Please excuse me,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t protest or follow. How unlike him. Did he not know someone was at the door?
Her heart drummed erratically as she tugged open the door. The frantic beat slowed, and she dragged in a much-needed breath when her visitor’s identity clicked. “Peter!”
He smiled. “Hi, Julia,” he said, his tone shy and hesitant. A panicked light flittered into his hazel eyes. “Your brother’s not here, is he?”
“He is. But he’s in the kitchen, completely absorbed in his meal,” she rushed to add when Peter backed away three hasty steps. “I don’t think he even knows I’m gone.”
His shoulders relaxed. He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and jingled change. “I wondered if you’d like to come over for dinner and finish our discussion about—”
Tristan showed up then, pressing his chest against her back. She stiffened as he barked, “We are busy.” Then he shut the door in Peter’s stunned, horrified face with more force than necessary.
With a moan, Julia propped her forehead against the cherry wood. “That was unbelievably rude.”
“Was it not rude to interrupt our meal? Now, come.” Tristan led her back to the table, a clear indication he considered the conversation over.
She bit back a sigh and settled into her chair. She’d visit Peter just as soon as she’d figured out what to say. How could she make him understand Tristan’s presence in her home without lying? Well, lying more. How could she apologize for Tristan’s behavior without lying? You couldn’t build a relationship on lies.
Tristan’s leg bumped hers again, only this time he lingered. Erotic shivers dislodged all thoughts of Peter. Shivers raced down her spine.
When Tristan reached under the table and ghosted his fingertips over her thigh, white-hot need crashed through her body like bolts of lightning. Raspy breaths she recognized as her own pounded in her ears. Beads of sweat popped onto her brow. If only he’d forget about the pasta in front of him and feast on her.
Who am I? When had she become such a sexual being? Another tremor raked her, deliciously decadent.
“Draga,” he said, lazily dragging out the syllables.
“Yes?” she answered breathlessly. Oh, yes, yes, yes.
“Have you, perchance, found something you desire?”
“Yes.” She forced herself to concentrate, to think of something plausible. “You took my bread stick. I want it back.”
Light reflected off his eyes, making them twinkle. Delight? Admiration? Mischief? “You want mine when you have not eaten the one in front of you?”
“Oh.” She glanced down, saw her plate piled high with uneaten food. “I’m not that hungry.”
He smiled a slow, sensual smile that held promise and knowledge, wickedness and allure. “Mayhap I can interest you in something else, a more appetizing morsel than bread.”
He was…flirting with her? Did she have the chops to flirt back? “I’m not sure you can, but perhaps you should try,” she said, dreading—praying—he might say something naughty back.
A lengthy pause left her suspended on the edge of her chair. Had she messed it up—or nailed it?
“Mayhap I can interest you in…me.”
Was the room suddenly hotter? Brighter? She tugged at the collar of her shirt and forced herself to remain seated, lest she throw herself at him. “I made dessert,” she offered lamely. “Well, I didn’t cook it. I just opened the box and set the bonbons on the counter.”
“Bring them to me,” he coaxed, his voice like soft,
