Well, I’m not sitting at the table in nothing but a bathrobe and my undies, waiting for him to seduce me, she thought, pulling on her last dry pair of pants. She’d only brought the one hoodie, but her t-shirt was dry, and it was warm enough inside the cottage not to be an issue. She tied back her hair as though she were heading to the training floor rather than dinner with a potential lover, then looked in the mirror and pulled the elastic free with a snort of disgust.
And even though she was about to eat dinner, she brushed her teeth.
An assortment of dishes covered the small table in the kitchenette, steaming and redolent with heavenly smells, and Eamonn stood at the counter, pouring tequila into a blender. He must have been listening for Nell because he turned the moment she stepped out of the bedroom.
“Fix yourself a plate, babe.” He gestured toward the food on the table. “I’ll join you in a minute; I’m working on that drink you said you needed.”
Her first impulse was to snap that she did not need a drink, but she took a deep breath and reminded herself that maybe a little liquid relaxation wouldn’t hurt. “Where did you get the Cointreau?” she asked instead, seeing it on the counter.
“Oh, I had it in my truck too,” he said with a shrug.
“Seriously? You got a full liquor cabinet in there?”
He grinned. “I have far too much alcohol in my truck. Comes in handy sometimes. And François had frozen limeade concentrate and strawberries, so we’re all set. Now, eat.” He held out a plate.
“Thanks.” She took the plate. Then he hit the ice crush button and the blender’s noise made conversation impossible, so she turned to the table and looked at the offerings laid out there. He’d picked out things that could be eaten easily, with fingers or at least minimal mess — quesadillas that François must have frozen for easy reheating, crusty rolls stuffed with pulled pork and coleslaw, bruschetta. Delicious.
The blender noise stopped, and Eamonn turned to snag a triangle of quesadilla, dipping it in the sauce. As he bit into the wedge, a dollop of sauce slid off and dripped down his hand. “Oops!” He licked the sauce off his fingers, winking at Nell. “Mmm, that’s good stuff. Try it.” As she narrowed her eyes at him, he nodded toward the dish of sauce. “I’m not even going to tease you about licking it off me. You can get your own.”
“All right.” She took a quesadilla and dipped it in the sauce. Started eating it as slowly and sensually as she could, licking her lips and fingers as she went, getting an unreasonable amount of satisfaction from his look of astonishment. Flirting? Well, I suppose I am.
“You trying to speed things up here?”
“No. No, I—” Flustered, she dropped the last bit of quesadilla — it slipped out of her fingers, landing with a splat on the floor. “Crap.”
Before she could move, he grabbed a paper towel from the kitchenette counter and knelt to wipe up the small mess. Kneeling at my feet. Then he looked up at her.
“We need those margaritas,” he said, his voice husky. He stood. Got two tumblers out of the small cabinet and poured pink slush from the blender into them. Handed her one. “Cheers. Sorry there’s no salt.”
As he clunked his glass against hers, a glob of frozen margarita slopped over the edge of her glass onto her hand. She looked around for the paper towels.
Eamonn put a hand on her wrist, stopping her. “Let me get that,” he said, and drew her hand up to his mouth, closing his lips over the sweet-tart slush and sweeping his tongue along the sensitive skin between her thumb and forefinger.
“Did you just lick me?” Nell’s voice came out breathy, sounding as stunned as she felt.
“Yup.” He grinned. “Are you going to put me on the ground for it, ninja woman?”
She took a big slurp of her margarita, debating how to answer that. Too late to play a careful game, wasn’t it? Silly to take things slow, when the path ahead was burningly clear. “Only if you want me on top.”
“Fuck me.” Eamonn put his drink down, then gently took hers and placed it on the table next to his. Stepped into her space and rested a hand on her hip, pulling her in. His eyes were dark with desire. “Can I assume I’ve got consent here, babe?”
“Are you making fun of me?” She tensed, ready to push him away.
He laughed softly. “No — I just want to be sure. Don’t want to ruin the moment. Are we good?”
The room felt suddenly short of oxygen, and Nell gathered her scattered brain cells to mutter a breathless “Yes.”
“Good.” He snaked one hand behind her head, gently cupping the base of her skull. With his other arm, he settled her more firmly against him. She tensed for a moment — his hands on her head and hip gave up too much leverage, too much control, and she found the vulnerability of her position unnerving — then his hand slid further down to rest intimately on her ass. She could feel his arousal, evident right through his jeans, and the awareness of it blotted everything else from her mind.
She could feel the warmth of his breath, his lips inches from hers. Time froze. And then he closed the distance, bending his head to bring his mouth down to hers.
His lips were firm and slightly cool from the margarita, and he tasted of strawberry and lime and tequila. “I’ve wanted to do this since we met,” he murmured against her mouth. He probed at her lips with his tongue and she
