"Mm." My hands flatten against her stomach. She's warm through the thin cotton.
She tilts her head. "You're distracting me."
"I'm motivating you."
"You're doing something, and it's not motivational." But she stands, and holds my hands in front of her before pressing back against me, hips shifting, and the contact sends a bolt of heat straight through me. She feels it. I know she feels it, because she does it again—a deliberate little roll of her hips against what's become a very obvious problem.
"Jane."
"Is that a spatula in your pocket or—"
"It's not a spatula."
She laughs—bright and genuine—and my hands slide up under the hem of her sundress. Her skin is warm. Smooth. I find her breasts, cup them, and her laugh turns into a breathy, trembling inhale.
"You play dirty," I murmur against her neck.
She spreads her legs slightly, shifts back against me. "You started it."
I kiss the curve of her throat. The spot behind her ear where she's sensitive and where her pulse hammers visibly.
"I want to have you nice and slow," I tell her. "Later. When we've got hours and I can take my time."
"That's cruel."
"That's a promise."
She turns in my arms, face flushed, pupils dark. "Then you better keep it, Prescott."
"I always keep my promises, darling."
The word darling slips out before I can stop it. We both hear it. She blinks. Something shifts between us—warm, weighted, too big for this kitchen.
Then her phone buzzes, and she breaks eye contact, reaching for it.
"Theresort's sending the ingredients up in twenty minutes."
"Then I'll shower." I release her, stepping back. Creating space before I abandon all plans and carry her to the bedroom. "You plan. I'll clean up. Then we'll make this ridiculous."
She looks up at me, still grinning. "Ridiculous is my specialty."
Yeah. I'm starting to figure that out.
When I come back—showered, dressed in linen pants and the navy shirt Jane insists makes my eyes look "unfairly blue"—she's transformed the terrace.
Table set with resort china. Tropical flowers she pirated from a lobby arrangement tucked into a water glass. Champagne flutes arranged in a neat row. The terrace overlooks the bay, turquoise water sparkling beneath a cloudless sky, and she's turned this borrowed casita into something that feels like home.
"Resort's sending the rest up any minute," she says, not looking at me. Too focused. "Should be here now."
There's a knock. Resort staff with a rolling cart. Covered dishes. Produce. And a cooler.
A big one.
Jane practically skips to the door. Takes the dishes. The fresh herbs.
She sets the cooler on the kitchen counter. Pops the lid.
Peers inside.
