“No.” She pointed at her nose. “That kiss. What are you trying to communicate?”
Ah.So she remembered what I’d said last night about kisses. I didn’t know why I was surprised.
I leaned in so my lips hovered beside her ear.I love you. I’m obsessed with you. You make everything better.“You’re cute.”
“Mm.” I could hear the smile in her voice. She liked my comment, but she didn’t love it. No woman wanted to be referred to as “cute” after sex. They wanted to be pretty, sexy, desirable. And she was all of those and more.
I kissed the spot just below her ear, inhaling her warm, rich amber scent. “Remember what that means?”
She sucked in a jagged breath. “Yes.”
I want you.
Because I did—want her. Today. Tomorrow. Always.
“Expecting company?”I teased, surveying the feast as Frasier rolled a room service cart outside to the table overlooking the ocean.
It was the morning after my sister’s wedding, and Frasier and I had stayed up late into the night dancing. Everyone had. It had been a magical evening, one of those perfect nights when people truly connected and had fun.
Even after we’d come back to the bungalow, Frasier and I hadn’t gone straight to sleep. We’d undressed each other slowly, making love beneath the stars.
This morning, we’d opted to sleep in, wanting to enjoy our last full day in paradise. We were supposed to fly home tomorrow, and if I weren’t so eager to see Biscuit and Bacon, I would’ve begged Frasier to stay longer. That said, we both had to get back to work. Back to real life.
The muscles of his back rippled as he steered the cart, and I couldn’t resist watching the way he moved, his body a study in contradictions. He was powerful, especially his quads and ass. But he was also graceful. His large size could be intimidating, and yet he’d only ever made me feel safe.
He lifted a shoulder. “I ordered for both of us.”
I barked out a laugh. “Just how much do you think I can eat?”
“Trust me, you’re going to thank me when you try the French toast.” He lifted the silver dome to reveal one of the plates. My stomach rumbled in appreciation.
He smirked as if to say, “See. I was right.” I stuck out my tongue at him.
He guided me to a chair, pulling it out and waiting for me to be seated. I resisted the urge to pull my legs into my lap and wrap his T-shirt around them. To bury my nose in the neckline and inhale.
He pressed his lips to my neck, giving my shoulder a squeeze before moving to the chair beside mine. We were both facing the ocean, and his hand was already resting on my thigh. I loved his constant need to be touching me.
Frasier placed the French toast in front of me. Always taking care of me. Focusing on my needs before his own—both at breakfast and in the bedroom.
I placed my hand on his arm, pulling him closer so I could kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
He turned, giving me a kiss on the lips. “You’re welcome.”
I sliced into the thick bread and dipped it in some syrup. When I took a bite, the flavors and textures exploded on my tongue. Crunchy. Packed with cinnamon and vanilla. Soft. Sweet.
“Wow. That is good.”
He leaned in, eyes alight with pleasure. “Want to know the secret?”
“Um. Yes. Are you kidding?” I dug into another bite, relishing the taste of it. Everything about it was unexpected and delicious.
“They use Portuguese sweet bread soaked in an egg mixture. And then they dip the thick crust in crushed cornflakes.”
I shook my head, marveling at the man before me. “How do you know all that?”
“Boone.”
“Boone?” I asked, referring to one of the defensemen for the Hawks. I hadn’t realized he was such a foodie.
