By now, I’ve memorized the house’s layout from days of wandering around the estate. I hurry down to a lavish dining room boasting a long mahogany table large enough for twelve. But only two places are set. Morning sunlight streams through tall windows, casting everything in golden hues.
I marvel at the polished silverware, crystal glasses, fine china covered in metal domes, which match an elegant antique tea service. My mouth waters, and my stomach makes a loud gurgle, welcoming the change from salty sandwiches.
This is like a scene from a period romance where the heroine falls in love with the mysterious lord of the manor. Except I’m a fugitive who now has a foot fetish.
Just what I needed: a new kink when I should be focusing on survival.
I take a seat, my palms slick with sweat. The chair is more comfortable than anything I’ve sat in since fleeing Gil’s penthouse. The napkin is actual linen, not paper. And the aroma coming from under that silver dome makes me groan with hunger.
My fingers twitch toward the plate, but I force myself to wait. Mr. Rochester probably wants to talk about our relationship... Or however you’d describe what happened last night. How the hell do you confront someone about toe sex over breakfast? Thank him? Pretend it never happened? Ask if he’s planning an encore?
Before I can even rehearse what I need to say, the door opens with a soft click. Mr. Rochester strides in looking like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel. His navy three-piece suit fits his athletic frame to perfection, showcasing broad shoulders and prominent pecs. Instead of a tie, he wears a cravat, arranged in a wide knot.
He’s freshly shaved, with his black hair curling gently around his brow. The man looks well-rested. Satisfied. Like he got exactly what he needed last night.
Which is a pity, because I’m a mess of unfinished business and confused hormones.
My gaze tracks his graceful movements across the dining room. My nostrils fill with the heady scent of cedar. I inhale, pulling his aura deeply into my lungs. Beneath all that tailoring is a man with unbridled lust. Lust a woman like me can satisfy if I can get a chance. I’m already picturing myself a permanent fixture inthis manor, safe from my troubles and focused only on his pleasure.
“Good morning, Miss Burlington.” He settles into the chair across from me in a fluid movement that screams old money and good breeding. “Did you sleep well?”
I study his handsome features, searching for a sign, a smirk, a sprinkling of knowing. Anything that hints of what he did to me last night. But his expression gives nothing away.
“Not as well as I’d like,” I say, trying to hedge.
His lips curve into a tiny smile. “We’ll have to see what we can do to help you sleep better, then.”
My brain short-circuits. Is he talking about orgasms or melatonin? Because based on the throb between my legs, I could definitely use the former. Hell, I’d settle for him finishing what he started last night.
“Thank you,” I squeak, trying to keep my voice steady.
Mr. Rochester lifts the silver dome from his plate, revealing eggs Benedict that looks like it came from a five-star restaurant. My brows rise. Maybe Mrs. Fairfax is good for something other than looming in the shadows.
I follow his lead, uncovering my own plate to find the same. He raises another dome, revealing fresh fruit arranged like artwork. On a third, flaky croissants that smell like butter and heaven rest in a pyramid. When I take one, I find that it’s still warm.
“Coffee?” He raises a silver pot.
“Please,” I say, my voice breathy.
When he pours it, I drool. The last time I had a cup was on my first morning here, before Mrs. Fairfax disappeared. Since then, it’s been tea bags and hot water.
He slips off the jacket, revealing biceps bulgingbeneath his cotton shirt. Then he turns his attention to the food, cutting precise bites with the silver cutlery. My gaze drops to the forearms flexing beneath his sleeves. And that mouth, those strong lips I can’t help imagining between my thighs instead of around my toes.
Should I say something? I shake my head. Last time I spoke first, he put me in my place. He’s the one who issued the invitation. He should start the conversation.
Mr. Rochester eats with controlled hunger, like a man who knows exactly what he wants. Each bite is deliberate, savored. The way he brings the fork to his lips makes my toes turn.
My nipples tighten under the dress, and sensation travels south. Arousal is an unwanted guest at this breakfast, but I can’t make it leave. Lord knows I wish I could blame it all on adrenaline.
I’ve seen men tear through food like hogs, stuffing chunks in their mouths, wiping fingers on shredded napkins, tonguing bites behind their teeth to make room for a swig of beer. It’s the first time I’ve seen a man eat so quickly with so much grace. Mr. Rochester cuts delicate portions with the speed and precision of a surgeon working against the clock. His appetite is bigger than any man’s I’ve ever seen, but he gorges himself with class.
When he swallows, I’m mesmerized by the movement of his throat. How would it feel to pepper that neck with kisses?
He pauses mid-bite, the fork halfway to his mouth, and stares across the table at me with those fathomless black eyes. The sudden attention makes my pulse spike.
“Are you not hungry?” he asks, his voice lilting with amusement.
“Yes,” I blurt and cut into my eggs Benedict.
