Wicked Games. Alison Kent
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since that was causing butterfly fountains to bubble in her stomach, she gave up worrying that a lack of dessert meant she’d flubbed the entire evening, and reached for calm, cool and collected. Ohhmmm.
But when she opened her front door and saw him standing in the porch’s yellowed light, she didn’t know how to react, because the idea of never seeing him again hit her like a blow to the center of her chest.
When had he become so integral to her life, and when had she started taking him for granted?
She released the lock on the glass storm door and pushed it open, nearly breathless when she said, “Hi.”
The smile he’d originally given her deepened, his eyes going wide and his brows coming down as he took her in from head to toe. “Wow. And hi yourself.”
His “wow” made all the effort she’d taken with her appearance worth every minute of the tweaking spent on hair and makeup. “Back atcha.” Back atcha in a very big way.
He looked better than she remembered, and she had to wonder if she’d really ever noticed him before, or if she was simply caught up in the moment.
He wore charcoal-gray trousers and a heather-green sweater over a pale yellow dress shirt. He walked into her living room, and she turned to close the door, leaning back against it and thinking she’d never seen a guy’s backside look better than Doug Storey’s did in gray wool.
He stopped, one hand shoved into a pocket, the other holding a bottle of wine, and turned back, smiling. “It smells great in here. You should’ve told me you cooked. I would’ve been over more often.”
She thought about telling him the truth regarding her culinary skills, but went with a different truth instead. “You would’ve been welcome. You are welcome. Anytime. I just need advance warning if you expect food.”
He laughed at that. “Why’s that?”
“Well, actually, I don’t cook.” She considered the fit of his clothes one last time, then pushed away from the door and led him into the kitchen, her slides clicking from hardwood floor to rich Italian tile. “I don’t cook at all.”
“Hmm. Not sure if I should be honored here or worried.” His chuckle followed close on her heels.
The thrill of the chase was on. “Honored, of course. No need to worry. This recipe came straight from Sydney’s kitchen.”
Doug set the bottle of pinot noir on the kitchen island, leaned a hip on the edge and crossed his arms. “Now that you mention it, I have noticed Ray getting a little pudgy around the middle. I guess that’s a good sign.”
Kinsey decided it was best not to let him know who exactly was cooking these days in the Coffey household. She handed him the corkscrew she’d rummaged in her utensil drawer earlier to find. “Like I said. No worries. I happen to have this meal totally under control.”
One of Doug’s brows lifted sharply as he opened the wine and poured them each a glass. He drank, his eyes never leaving hers even after he’d returned the stemware to the island’s tiled surface. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, darlin’, but I’m wondering if you might need to check whatever it is boiling away in that pot.”
“Oh, shoot.” Kinsey cut off the gas flame, took up the wooden spoon and stirred furiously. The glaze still smelled incredible, thank goodness. She sighed deeply, glanced back at Doug. “Thanks. You saved the day.”
He shrugged, winked. “Saved dinner, at least.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” But she did want to be sure the glaze hadn’t burned before she served it with the chicken. She dipped the tip of a clean spoon into the sweet sauce, blew across the surface to cool it down, then taste-tested.
“Mmm.” She smacked her lips, then did so again, knowing Doug watched. “Okay. You’re right. You saved dinner.”
“Well, then?” Doug tapped his lower lip, signaling that he wanted a taste, too. “How ’bout a little hero respect here?”
Rolling her eyes, Kinsey grabbed another spoon. “I guess this goes to prove that cooking is probably one thing I should learn to do.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, then added, “Other than the obvious need to avoid burning down the house,” as she offered him the tip of the spoon, and he took hold of her wrist.
His hand was so large around her much smaller one, and he never broke eye contact as he opened his mouth. Watching his lips close over the spoon, watching his tongue flick at a smudge of glaze left on his lips, she remembered the intimacy of the kisses they’d shared during last summer’s vacation.
She wondered if she’d be able to find her voice to answer his question. “Oh, something about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach,” she finally said.
He licked his lips and murmured his approval of the orange and papaya, breaking into a grin that pulled deeply at the dimples in his cheeks. His smile grew wider as he carefully timed his reply. “You’re catering to the wrong organ, darlin’. Trust me on that one.”
And with that, he kissed her. Still holding her wrist, he moved his other hand to the small of her back and pulled her into his body. He tasted of sweet citrus and the even sweeter promise of sex, and Kinsey melted.
She felt the beat of her pulse in the grasp of Doug’s fingers, felt the beat of his heart beneath the palm she’d pressed to the center of his chest. His lips parted and she opened her mouth, smiling as his tongue slipped deftly inside.
So warm, so demanding, so confident. So sure of what he wanted, and of being able to give her all that her body desired. When he slid his hand up her spine, when he threaded his fingers into her hair, when he cupped the back of her head to hold her still, she chuckled because she couldn’t help it.
He felt so good. He made her feel so good, even when way too soon he began to slow what had started as a fast and furious and very sudden need to connect. Damn the man for having the restraint she was struggling to find.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked when he finally put enough space between their mouths to talk.
“Nothing.” She shook her head but found it hard to push him away. She had to, for the food and for her plan to have time to come together. “Just a happy laugh. You make me feel nice.”
“You make me feel even better, especially since you’re not laughing at my technique.” He shoved a hand through his hair, which had grown overly long and rakish. “A guy can take only so much rejection in one day.”
He let go of her wrist and stepped back, his dejection replacing the thrill of seconds before. But just as quickly, the emotion was gone, and Kinsey wondered if she’d imagined it all along. “Why? What happened?”
He leaned against the countertop and snitched a piece of carrot from her chopping block. “A late flight and a missed meeting earned me a hell of a reaming from Anton, not to mention a butt-chewing by my client.”
“A late flight is hardly your fault,” she said with a frown, feeling strangely protective instincts kick in. As if Doug needed her to watch his back.
“No, but I cut it too close. I knew what time I needed to be back here and…” He shrugged, grabbed another slice of carrot from the bowl she held. “I got greedy, I guess. Trying to make one more contact in Denver while I was there.”
Kinsey paused to consider the best answer to give, not knowing if he was looking for support or censure. “So you’ve got a go-getter sort of work ethic. You can hardly be faulted for that.”
Doug grimaced as he finished the carrot. “Except there are times it seems more of a fault than an asset.”
“Like now?” she asked, sensing he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have made what he considered an error in judgment.
He nodded. “Reuben Bettis, one of the junior execs…Reuben covered