Satisfaction Guaranteed(35)

Sloane: And those are?



Malone: My ability to order from the finest restaurants in this city. Arrive hungry.



Sloane: Obviously. I thought we made that crystal clear. I’m incredibly hungry. Starving, you might say. For something in particular.



Sloane: By the way, what can I bring? Wine? Dessert? Batteries? The silver dolphin? A feather tickler? Rope? Crisco?



Malone: Crisco. Lots of Crisco.



Sloane: Stopping by Costco now.



Malone: And to answer your question, you can bring anything you want that makes you feel good. That’s the thing, Sloane—this isn’t about me telling you what to do or showing you how your body works. This is about you feeling incredible, and whatever you need to feel that way is what you should get.



Sloane: You say things like that and . . .



Malone: And what?



Sloane: And it makes me swoon.



Malone: Then I’m doing it right. But maybe save the swooning for when you get here, because then I can catch you.





28





Sloane Elizabeth’s Post-It Note for VITAL Tasks

1. Call Basil for help. If anyone can find it, it’ll be him. Check.

2. Don’t stare at the phone all day waiting for him to call back. Have some patience. Check.

3. Do a victory dance when he tells you he found it! Check.

4. Meet Basil before going to Malone’s. Check.

5. Grab a pretty red bow, because red bows make everything better. Check.





29





I am in music heaven.

Frank Sinatra warbles from the laptop, his fantastic voice filling the apartment. I tap a beat on the counter as we listen to his concert at the Avalon.

You couldn’t wipe the grin off my face if you tried. I shake my head in admiration once more. “I can’t believe you found this. In a day. I’ve been looking for years.”

Sloane shakes her hips. “When you got it, you got it.”

“You’re clearly the most amazing person who ever lived. And I owe Basil a huge thank you. Now that he found Sinatra, he’s no longer Plant.”

“I told you you’d like him. He’s a total music hound. I called him this morning and asked him to track it down for you. He found it in five hours, and it didn’t cost an arm and a leg.”

“A finger though?”

“I sacrificed a pinky for it. Worth it, though, for your reaction.”

I loop an arm around her waist and drop a kiss onto her lips as the Chairman of the Board sings “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” “Fitting tune. Also, you didn’t have to.”

She smiles, and it’s radiant. She’s so damn pleased with herself for making me happy. And hell, she should be. I’ve been hunting for the CD for ages. “No, I didn’t have to. I wanted to,” she says.

Then she kisses me, and I close my eyes, letting the world fade away as the music and the woman become all there is.

When the song ends, my mission begins.





*



The sound she makes as she takes the first bite of pasta primavera is carnal.

She rolls her eyes and moans around the fork.

Lucky fork.

“This is incredible,” she declares when she finishes the bite of olive oil–drizzled artichoke. “You do know how to order.”

“World class skills at restaurant picking. I got ’em,” I say then take a bite of my chicken dish. We’re at the marble counter in my kitchen, parked on leather stools.

She dives in for another bite, humming as she chews. Her dark-red top slopes down her shoulder. My attention snaps to a lacy pink strap. I file it away, though, knowing I’ll be spending time removing her clothes soon enough.

After another bite, she sets down the fork and stares at me expectantly. “So what’s the story with the pasta?”

“It has special silver dust in it that’s known to induce spontaneous orgasms.”

“In that case, I’ll have multiples.” She laughs as she takes another forkful. “Seriously though. This pasta is to die for.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

She smirks. “And will I be burning it off?”

I reach for a glass of wine, meeting her gaze. “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

She takes a sip of the Pinot Grigio, then licks her lips. “Tastes like peaches.”

I kiss the corner of her lips, murmuring, “Good thing I like the taste of peaches."

She downs her drink, her eyes twinkling as she whispers, “Me too.”

We finish, and she stares at me quizzically, gesturing to the meal. “The dinner. Is it really aphrodisiac food? I guess I think of oysters and chocolate-covered strawberries when it comes to aphrodisiacs.”

I take the plates and carry them to the sink, then grab our glasses and head to the couch, motioning for her to join me on a slate-gray cushion.

She moves in next to me, and I hand her the wine. “Want to know?”

“I do. I really do.”

“It’s not supposed to be an aphrodisiac meal. I’m not trying to make you come with pasta.”