steaks.”
She laughed. “I’m so impressed I can barely breathe. Will you actually take the potatoes out of the oven yourself?”
“Absolutely. Although if it makes you feel better, you can help.”
“It’s almost too much. I’m going to bet that next you’ll be telling me you can pour milk on cereal and make toast.”
“How’d you guess?” He rose. “Come on. You can watch and marvel.”
She set down her wine and stood. “So much for you hiring Elena for your grandfather. You sound like you need a keeper, too.”
“No way. I can order take-out as well as any other guy.”
“I guess I shouldn’t make fun of you. I’m not much of a cook, either. Although I can boil up frozen ravioli like nobody’s business.”
“That’s something,” he said, and took her hand in his.
Francesca allowed him to lead her inside. She felt good. Better than good, she was tingling. Being around Sam made her physically aware in a way that was new and exciting. She liked how they teased and laughed. So far there hadn’t been any awkward pauses or stumbling conversations, and this dating stuff was looking pretty good.
He walked into the family room, where he released her and moved over to a stack of complicated-looking electronic equipment.
“Any musical preferences?” he asked.
“Not really.”
While he flipped through several CDs, she walked around the room. A large, overstuffed sofa faced a widescreen television with massive speakers on either side. To the left was the electronic tower Sam held court over; to the right was a set of French doors leading to the patio.
Francesca moved to her right, where open shelves displayed everything from books to pictures. There were several of Sam with an older man she guessed was his grandfather, a few shots of foreign locations, and none of his parents. No other women, either, which she supposed was a good thing.
Magazines lay on a coffee table. Time, Fortune, Car and Driver. Talk about a guy. She smiled.
As she completed her circuit, soft strains of music filled the room.
Sam touched her shoulder, causing her to turn toward him. He moved close, putting both his hands on her waist.
“Dance with me,” he said.
Awkwardness filled her. “Here? In the family room?”
“Would you be more comfortable in the kitchen?”
“No. I just-”
He didn’t wait for an explanation. She had the feeling he didn’t wait for much. Instead he began moving her to the slow beat, pulling her closer with each step until they were pressed against each other. She gave into the rhythm and raised her arms so she could link her hands behind his head.
She found herself caught up in his steady gaze, in the feel of his body against hers. There were defining moments in life, she thought hazily. And magic ones. This dance, this night, this man fell into the latter category. If she was interested in reacquainting herself with a journey exploring life’s possibilities, he seemed like the perfect guide.
He leaned down and brushed his mouth against hers. This time she immediately recognized the aching for what it was. Desire.
She gave herself up to the sensation and the kiss. His tongue stroked her lower lip before slipping inside her mouth. She welcomed him, surging against him. The edges of the world blurred, then faded as she lost herself in the passion of the moment.
He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, slowly. Over and over his tongue stroked against hers, circling, teasing, until she only wanted to surrender. Their bodies continued to move to the rhythm of the music, a steady erotic beat that matched the thundering of her heart.
Hunger filled her, pulsing, driving, and demanding. Hunger, but not for the promised steak and salad. Instead she starved for this man. Her sisters had teased her about it being too long, but she hadn’t really believed them. Not until this moment, when she felt empty and malnourished. She wanted to be touched all over and to touch in return. She wanted to feel slick heat and surging surrender. She wanted to give herself up to the moment, to the man, and then spend the next forty-eight hours in a sensual fog.
Between her legs, flesh swelled and wept in anticipation. Her panties grew damp. Her breasts ached as her nipples tightened. Her skin was suddenly too small, her clothes too confining. She ached… all over.
The kissing wasn’t enough, she thought, fighting frantic need. She pressed harder against Sam, desperate to rub against him, to feel friction and contact and pleasure. Her brain began to shut down as instinct took over. The hunger grew and burned. Unfamiliar, powerful, it should have frightened her. Maybe with another man it would have, but not with Sam.
He pulled away and stared at her. Passion tightened his features. His breathing was as fast and hard as her own.
“Hell of a kiss,” he murmured, his voice thick and low.
She stared at him without speaking.
He swore. “Francesca, do you have any idea what your eyes are telling me? If you don’t mean them to say yes, you’d better speak up right now.”
She waited for good sense to take over. Nothing happened.
“I guess I don’t have anything to say,” she whispered.
He rubbed his thumb across her mouth. “You’re pure fantasy material, you know that?”
Her? A fantasy? That worked. She reached up and kissed him.
Sam responded with a deep groan that shook her down to her toes. He cupped her face and kissed her deeply. Sometime in all this they’d stopped dancing. She didn’t mind. Nothing really mattered except the fire inside of her and the man in front of her.
He dropped his hands to her shoulders, then slid them down to her hands. Even as he kissed her cheeks, her jaw, her chin, he was pulling her out of the room. They made it to the hallway, where they clung to each other for a second before racing up the tall, wide flight of stairs.
On the second floor Francesca saw little more than hardwood floors, windows, and doors before Sam was pulling her along the hallway. At the end he entered through double doors, and pushed them shut behind her. Then he was drawing her close and touching her… everywhere.
He stroked her back, her rear, her hips, then slipped around to settle his hands on her waist. At the same time he kissed her. His tongue brushed against hers with a passionate tenderness that made her catch her breath.
She touched him in return. The width of his shoulders. Hard muscles contrasted with the softness of his shirt. She traced the breadth of his chest, then circled to his back. His hands climbed toward her breasts, hers dipped to his rear. They reached their destinations at the same time, and as her fingers dug into high, tight flesh, he brushed against her hard, sensitive nipples.
They both gasped.
The ache inside of her intensified. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been touched there. How many years had it been since she’d felt the pressure of a firm caress on tight, hungry skin?
He cupped her curves, then broke the kiss to bend down. Through the layers of her dress and bra, she felt the heat of his breath. He bit down gently and she nearly screamed.
He reached for the buttons running down the front of her dress. At the same time she tugged his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans. She vaguely recalled that in the past she’d been somewhat shy and restrained in bed. And she probably would be again. Just not now. Not with the need pounding inside of her like a drum. She ached. Between her legs, the dampness surged until she was wet and slick and ready. She wanted his hands on her-her breasts, between her legs. She wanted his mouth everywhere. She trembled, she shook, she needed.
He finished with the buttons and pushed the dress off her shoulders. She straightened her arms and let it fall to the floor, leaving her wearing bikini panties and a bra.
Sam’s gaze swept over her, and he sucked in a breath. “Stunning,” he said.
“My turn.” She tugged on his polo shirt. “Take this off.”
