In Flight (Up in the Air #1)(35)

“October.” I answered. “How about you?”

“June 5th. October what?”

I sighed. “24th.” I stifled the urge to say, Why do you care? You won’t even remember my name by then. That would be rude, I told myself. And he seemed to be oddly sensitive.

He nodded, as though making a note of it.

Yeah, right.

The oven timer went off, and he walked into the kitchen, seemingly oblivious to the fact that that clingy towel looked in danger of falling off with every step.

I made myself look away.

He brought in two impressive dishes a moment later. He had already dished the food onto the plates, arranging the meal with a chef’s flourish.

It was an offering of asparagus, freshly baked salmon seasoned to perfection, and some type of grain I’d never seen before.

I tasted it, then pointed to it with my fork. “I don’t even know what that is, but it’s delicious. It’s all divine. Is there anything you’re bad at?”

He smiled, the first self-deprecating smile I’d seen on him. It was disarming and all too charming.

“Learning about you. Getting you to spend the night with me. And that grain is quinoa.”

I just continued to eat, ignoring the first things he mentioned. I still felt that itching under my skin, that strong need to withdraw from the intimacy we’d shared.

“Oh, I got you a present,” he told me, smiling at me as we were finishing our meal. “Do you want desert before or after the gift?”

I waved him off. “Oh, I couldn’t. I’m so stuffed already.”

He looked genuinely disappointed. “Just a bite? It’s just a light custard with some fresh fruit. We could share.”

I smiled, genuinely charmed by his boyish need to impress me with his cooking. “Okay, we can share.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mr. Insatiable

He was back quickly with the desert. It was served in a heavy glass goblet, and he held the spoon up to my mouth for a bite.

“Mmmm,” I said, smiling at him, my mouth still full.

Unexpectedly, he bent down and kissed me. It was so different from the tone of the meal we’d just shared that I almost pushed him away, startled. Instead, I made myself hold still, kissing him back tentatively.

This was the part that was easy between us, I thought. None of the rest of it made any sense to me, but this part felt damned near too perfect.

He was lifting me onto a clear spot on the massive black table before I could blink. His towel was gone, my dress pushed up in a flash.

“Are you too sore?” His voice was a rough murmur against my lips.

“I can’t imagine being too sore for this,” I told him, reaching down his body to grab his thick arousal. I stroked him with relish, and he thrust into my hand. I ran my hands up his torso, then along his muscular arms, then back up to his shoulders.

“You’re body is perfect. I can’t believe you really are tan everywhere.”

He smiled, enjoying my appreciation of his body. “My mother was half-Italian and half-Cherokee, though she had no family left to speak of by the time she was eighteen. It was quite the scandal, to my father’s purely English family, when they married. My extended family all have the pasty white English skin you’d expect.”

I laughed. “Pasty? What about me? Am I pasty?”

He bent down, nuzzling at my neck. “Your skin is creamy perfection.”

I finally got a chance to touch him, stroking his back, his stomach, studying his incredible body with awe while I ran my hands across it.

He snagged one of my busy hands, pulling it up to his lips to kiss my wrist. He studied it intently, and I saw the imprint of rope marks there. The threads were a distinctive pattern, as though he’d marked me, temporarily, with his own special brand.

“I love seeing this on you,” he murmured thickly against my skin.

He spread my legs wide, pushing me down flat against the table. He poised that overpowering erection at my entrance.

I shuddered as he paused, my eyes closed.

“Look at me,” he ordered, his dominant voice surfacing again. It had faded to something softer and more charming since immediately after the first time we’d had sex. I’d missed it. I obeyed him.

“Watch me. I’ll punish you every time you look away from me when I’m inside of you.”

I nodded.

“Ask me for it,” he ordered, his hand moving to stroke his impressive cock.

“Please, Mr. Cavendish, f**k me.” I loved saying his surname, sounding out the three syllables as though they were a prayer.

He groaned, and he did. The first heavy thrust had my sore insides quivering, but it wasn’t unpleasant. And as he pulled out, and plunged in again, a deep sound tore from his throat. I forgot about all soreness entirely, pleasure pulsing through my entire body and building at my core.

His gaze was ardent. “Does it hurt?” he asked without pausing in his punishing rhythm.

“It’s perfect,” I answered, my voice thick with passion.

He kissed me roughly. My eyes closed briefly, until he pulled back to watch me again. I didn’t think I’d get a punishment for it, since he’d closed his, but I didn’t really care at that moment.

“Come,” he ordered me, and just like that, that all-consuming passion swept over me, my core rippling with an intense orgasm, my inner muscles clenching him impossibly tight.