We entered my office, and she took in the bookshelf along the wall, my cherry wood desk and leather loveseat that was off to the side.
“Do you work from home most days or do you have an office elsewhere?” she asked, following me out as I made our way down the hall.
“I have an office downtown. A few buildings down from your family’s law firm. I like to work from home from time to time, but with meetings and my staff, I need a separate office because—”
“You don’t like people in your personal space,” she quipped.
I laughed. “I guess. Upstairs are three of the bedrooms and a bathroom, not including the one in the master bedroom.” I gestured up the stairs as we passed them. I guided her down the long hall, pointing out what I called my “T.V. room,” another room I used to entertain guests. I had a larger media room downstairs, but the upstairs was for when I had only one or two guests. “And finally, the kitchen.” We entered the open doorway that led to one of my favorite rooms in the house. The white and gray marble countertops sparkled as the pots and pans hung in the convenient overhead rack.
“Now,thisis a kitchen. I wouldn’t expect one so luxurious from you.”
I frowned. “Why not?”
“Because you’re so busy, and I don’t know. You...” she trailed off.
I had no idea what she meant, but her tone didn’t make me take offense. “Okay, whatever the hell that is supposed to mean. Do you like alfredo?” I asked, heading over to my sub-zero refrigerator, pulling it open and searching for the contents of my earlier lunch.
“Of course, I do. Who doesn’t like alfredo? You got chicken to go with it?”
“Is there any other way to have it?” I asked, looking back over my shoulder, winking at her. I pulled out the glass containers that held the sauce, linguine, and chicken with broccoli.
“Mm, looks good. Your chef did a good job.”
I scoffed. “Chef? For some damn alfredo?” Offense was obvious in my tone. “I made this myself.”
“You cook?”
“I own close to twenty restaurants. You think I don’t know how to cook, even basic shit?” Seriously, there was nothing complicated about a simple alfredo sauce over linguine.
“I don’t know. I just figured you had a chef or ate at one of your restaurants.”
“I do a lot of the time, and yes, I do have a chef come in a few times a week when I’m in town. But, since I just got back in a few hours ago, I grabbed what was in my fridge and made this.”
“Oh.” She sounded surprised.
“You acting like you’ve never seen a man cook before or something,” I commented, placing the food in the microwave.
She snorted. “In my experience, they don’t.”
I shook my head. “The hell kinda dudes you been around?”
She laughed. “Don’t ask.”
I glanced over at her before turning back to pull the food out of the microwave. “Sit.” I jerked my head to the high-sitting stools at the center island.
“Taste this,” I told her as I spun the fork in the bowl, scooping up a few noodles and chicken, dragging it through the creamy sauce to make sure she got a forkful of everything. “Open,” I commanded, blowing on the food to cool it off, and then holding it up to her mouth.
She looked from the fork to me before slowly opening her mouth, accepting my offer. When her lips closed around the prongs of the fork, I slowly pulled it out, having to stop myself from groaning.
Her eyelids fluttered shut, and a look of pure satisfaction came over her. “Delicious,” she smiled. When her eyes opened and locked with mine, I forgot all about the goddamn food. I lowered the bowl, placing it on the counter, and moved my hands to grip her waist. When her tongue snaked out, licking off the excess sauce, it was over for me. I ducked my head and took her lips with my own.
It took a second before I felt her open up and accept my tongue into her mouth. She tasted like the alfredo, champagne from earlier, and something uniquely her. I wanted more of that taste, so I took it. I sucked on her tongue, moving back briefly to nip at her bottom lip. When I heard her whimper, I plunged back into her mouth, trying to devour her whole. My grip tightened on her waist, and I felt her hands reach up, gripping my shoulders tightly, pulling me in for more.
“Oh, shit!” I heard in the background.
It took my brain a moment to realize that those words didn’t come from Chanel because her mouth was otherwise engaged. It took me another moment for me to shake off the haze from our kiss to recognize the voice of the person who’d spoken.
“Shit, Xavier, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you would be home so early,” my mother said, sounding contrite.
