Burning Up. Sarah Mayberry
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His apology should have been insulting. He was still running down her cooking, after all. But the truth was that she wouldn’t have been too happy about being presented with such a tasteless plateful of bland, either. Plus, he was smiling at her, and it was amazing to discover how many different colors of amber and gold and topaz there were in the irises of his beautiful eyes….
It was happening again! Sophie gave herself a mental slap. She was not going to be mesmerized by him. Without a doubt, his appeal allowed him to get away with murder in life, and she was not going to pander to him when he already had most of the western world at his feet.
“I can make you something else,” she offered coolly. “An omelet? A club sandwich, or something more substantial, if that’s what you want?”
He shrugged in what she figured he thought was a boyishly rueful way. She narrowed her eyes and staunchly resisted the urge to be charmed.
“Apparently my contract states I have to maintain my current weight, and the studio is concerned I’ll pork up if I’m forced to sit around on my butt for too long,” he said. He eyed the chicken and cottage cheese, then slowly pulled the plate toward himself. “So, I guess this is me for the next four weeks.”
Resting his crutches against the island and cocking one hip against it, he grabbed a fork and began to eat. She watched, fascinated despite herself, until she caught sight of his tongue and something warm lurched in the pit of her stomach. Startled, she forced her gaze away.
She wasn’t interested in Lucas Grant’s tongue—or anyone else’s, for that matter.
Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like with someone else?
Brandon’s words haunted her yet again. Until Lucas had first appeared in her kitchen, she could have honestly answered no to that question. Which was disturbing for a whole bunch of reasons, really.
Determined to resist the lure of his charisma, Sophie returned the ham to the fridge and grabbed the sponge from the kitchen sink. Even though the counters were pristine, she wiped them down, anyway. Anything to distract herself from the disturbing tendency she felt to reach out and touch him, to find out if he really was as hard and hot as he looked.
“There. Done,” Lucas said.
She risked a glance in his direction and saw that his plate was bare. And that he’d switched his attention from food to her. There was a certain glint in his eye that hadn’t been there before, she noticed. And a certain quirk to one corner of his mouth, as though he was on the verge of smiling but wasn’t quite ready to share the joke. Then his gaze dropped below her face and she realized with a hot flush of awareness that he was checking her breasts out. And then—good Lord!—her thighs and ass.
By the time his gaze had returned to lock with hers, he was smiling fully. A big, enchanting, underwear-dissolving smile that had parts of her sitting up and begging for attention in complete violation of her vow to not buy into his whole roguish playboy routine.
“So. There’s a long afternoon ahead, Sophie,” he said.
Was it just her, or had his voice dropped an octave? She swore she could feel it rumbling along her nerve endings, smoky and seductive and meaningful.
Like a bunny in car headlights, she froze as he moved closer, using the counter to support himself instead of his crutches. By the time she clued in that she’d allowed him to effectively box her in, she was trapped and it was too late.
“So, are you a local? Can you think of anything fun we could do around here to while away the time?” Lucas asked.
Since when had the word fun sounded so…dirty? And enticing?
“I—I’m from S-Sydney,” she stuttered.
“Well, there’s probably plenty we can come up with if we really put our minds to it,” he said.
He was standing so close now that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. Her knees were weak, and her breasts felt heavy with need. Between her thighs, a traitorous heat was building.
Man, but he was sexy.
She inhaled deeply, sucking in his woody aftershave and something else that she suspected was simply hot man. For the first time in her life, she was overcome by the carnal desire to touch and be touched by another human being. It didn’t matter that he was most likely a jerk of the first order, that he probably didn’t have a sensitive or generous bone in his body. She wanted to have sex with him. She wanted to have him inside her, pounding into her, pushing her harder and faster. She wanted to get down and dirty and hot and sweaty with him.
There was so much need swelling inside her, so much crazy desire to be impulsive, to take the risk, to reach out and take what she wanted instead of being cautious and careful and considerate…. She felt dizzy. Out of control.
Scared.
He took another step forward, one hand finding the counter on either side of her so that she was bracketed within his arms. His eyelids had dropped to half mast as he focused on her mouth with intent.
“I’ve got a couple of really solid ideas if you’d like to try them on for size,” he murmured.
He was going to kiss her. He was going to lean down and press his hard body against hers and his tongue was going to be in her mouth and his hands on her skin.
Without even willing it, her palms flattened against his chest. To push him away. She was almost sure that was what she’d planned on doing. But the second she felt the hard curves of his pecs beneath her hands, instead of pushing him away, her hands fisted into the fabric of his T-shirt, and her arms flexed as she prepared to haul him close so she could act on every one of the wild, illicit fantasies dancing across her mind.
He smiled—a complacent, confident, assured smile—and started to lower his head. Inside her, fear warred with animal, instinctive need.
What am I doing?
The thought was like a flare exploding against a dark night sky.
This wasn’t the sort of thing she did, the rational part of her mind screamed at her. She was a calm, ordered, careful kind of person. A thinker, a planner. She liked routine—Brandon had said it just last night, in fact. When he broke up with her after fourteen years of monogamy.
She was Sophie Gallagher, chef and, until recently, engaged to be married. She didn’t have sex with strange men, even if they were handsome, famous movie stars. Especially if they were handsome, famous movie stars.
Acting on survival instinct, Sophie used every muscle in her body to shove against Lucas’s chest as he closed the final inches between them. Despite his size, he rocked back on his heel, his hands slapping onto the counter to regain his balance.
“Whoa!” he said, an annoyed expression replacing his complacent one.
Ducking, she slipped beneath his arm and escaped the corral he’d created with his body.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, bemused, as she made tracks for the door. “Where are you going?”
“Dinner is at six.” She threw the words over her shoulder, relief flooding her. What a close call.
She’d been seconds away from danger. From doing something irrevocable. Something foolish and crazy.
Thank God she’d come to her senses before it was too late.
4
WHAT THE HELL…?
Lucas shoved a hand through his hair and swore under his breath. One minute they’d been go, the next minute she was gone. Frustrated, he stared down at the erection straining the crotch of his jeans. Clearly, there was no chance of getting any relief in that department in the near future, even though she’d been sending out all the right signals—the heated look in her big brown eyes, the telltale pulse flickering at the base of her throat, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. God,