A Lot like Love (FBI/US Attorney #2)(74)

He lifted her off his lap and plunked her into the hot, bubble-filled water. She saw that he had the don’t-f*ck-with-me look on his face. The bossy but ridiculously sexy version.

“Sit up on the ledge,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not used to taking orders in the bathtub, Agent McCall.”

“You better not be.”

Smiling to herself over the possessive tone to his voice, Jordan moved to the edge of the tub. Perhaps, she decided, even a strong woman could acquiesce in interesting situations like these.

She lifted herself out of the water and sat on the ledge. The cool air gave her goose bumps as water dripped down her body and into the tub.

Another order. “Spread your legs.”

Her body turned to jelly. “What happens if I say no?”

A confident grin played at his lips. “You won’t.”

Damn. So true.

As her body buzzed with anticipation, she slowly did as he asked.

Nick rose out of the water onto his knees, his white-hot gaze taking in her spread legs. The water streamed down his toned abs and muscular thighs, and his thick, engorged shaft jutted out from his body.

Jordan swallowed hard.

He grabbed the glass again, moved toward her, and tilted the rim to her navel. As she watched, he poured a small amount of wine down her abdomen. His voice was gentler this time. “Lean back.”

Propped up on her elbows, Jordan closed her eyes and moaned when she felt his warm breath against her inner thighs. When his tongue parted her folds, her legs went limp, and she just . . . gave in. She felt his firm grip on each of her thighs, holding her open for him. She’d never felt so exposed, yet also unbelievably sexy, as he tormented her with his mouth until she was shaking. He brought her right to the peak, right to the point where she was saying his name nearly nonstop, when he stopped.

“No,” she gasped.

His voice had a strained edge. “With you moaning my name like that, I’m going to f**king explode if I don’t get inside you.” He grabbed the condom off the ledge. “Turn around.”

Clearly, they needed to have a talk about his dominant tendencies in sexual situations. Later. Much later.

Jordan lowered herself into the water and bent over the ledge, her elbows on the marble. She looked over her shoulder. “Like this?”

She watched him rip open the wrapper and roll the condom on. Then he moved behind her and gripped her hips to guide her bottom up, so that she was on her knees. “Like this.”

“Who’s making the power play now?” She just barely had enough wits for one last sassy comment before she felt his hard, hot, shaft nudging her open. She closed her eyes and moaned, her fingers splaying over the marble ledge as he slowly entered her from behind.

He leaned forward and kissed the nape of her neck. “Me. And you love it.”

Twenty-eight

THE NEXT DAY, Nick found himself on yet another winding, tree-lined road, heading to yet another winery. Kuleto Estate winery, Jordan had said—which, of course, meant nothing to him. So in response, he’d made his usual grumpy noises of protest, although some of that was for show more than anything else. After last night, he’d mellowed—just a touch—on the subject of wine. It wasn’t the worst thing a man could drink, he supposed. No doubt, he still preferred a good, stiff bourbon, but he’d begun to think that wine held a certain appeal under the right circumstances.

His mind flashed back to the image of Jordan lying on the bathtub ledge, moaning his name as she arched against his mouth.

And now he had a hard-on.

He looked over at the cause of his problem, sitting next to him in the backseat of the limousine she’d hired to drive them around for the day. Quickly, he realized that looking at Jordan wasn’t going to help anything. She was all put together again, polished and stylish in her navy dress and heels, and all he could think about was mussing her up. In fact, if it were up to him, this particular billionaire heiress would stay good and mussed all weekend.

Of course, whenever it came to Jordan, things were not entirely up to him. “How long will this tasting last?” he asked her.

“Hours. It includes lunch.”

He grunted his displeasure. She smiled in amusement, and the gesture was inconveniently contagious. He’d planned to act cranky for at least five more minutes.

Nick noticed then that the road had narrowed as it wound up the mountain. When the drop-offs on the car’s right turned steep, he saw Jordan clutch the edge of her seat.

He slid his hand over hers. “You okay?”

“I hate this part of the drive.”

“Then why are we doing it?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled to a stop at the top of the mountain. The driver parked the car, stepped out, and opened Jordan’s door. “I’ll grab the basket out of the trunk and bring it into the winery, Ms. Rhodes. I’ll make sure they put it in the refrigerator.”

Nick followed her out of the car. “What basket?” His FBI antenna went up—the limo had been waiting when he and Jordan arrived at the main lodge after being driven from their room in the golf cart, so he had no clue what might be inside the trunk.

“I had the resort put together a picnic lunch for us,” she said. “After the wine tasting, I figured we could grab a spot to eat, well, anywhere.” She gestured to the view all around them.