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“We had one condom,” I point out.
“And as you can tell, I can be creative.” His lips curve. “When I’m well fed. Stay, Lori. I want you to stay.” His voice is low, rough, compelling. “Forget what you planned to do. Do what we both want you to do. Stay with me.”
I should say no, but I don’t. “Yes,” I say, because nothing has changed. He might kiss like trouble, but this is one night and trouble can’t touch me tomorrow.
Chapter nine
Lori
Cole’s response to my agreement to stay longer is to kiss me hard and fast, his lips firm and warm. “Good,” he says. “Because I’m not done with you. Not even close.” Heat rushes through me with that promise and he laces his fingers with mine. “Come on. Let’s order that food.” He turns and holds onto my hand, almost as if he’s afraid I’ll run for the door, and the truth is, it feels good to have someone hold onto me, to want me. The kind of feelings I can’t afford, not beyond tonight, but I can’t help but revel in them here, now, just a little longer.
He guides me to the sitting area and we settle on the couch, no space between us. He keeps me close, our legs aligned, and when he opens a drawer on the coffee table and removes a menu, he sets it on our joined legs, skipping to a photo. “I highly recommend the lasagna,” he says, pointing to what looks like two thousand calories of perfection, while I think he’s about double that or more. “The chef trained in Italy,” he continues, “and he does Italy better than Italy and that’s hard to do.”
“You’ve been here often if you’ve evaluated the chef’s resume.”
He makes a frustrated sound. “Too often,” he says. “I’m ready to be out of here.”
He’s ready to be out of here. He’s ready to be home. Tonight is tonight. It’s what I want. It’s right for me and right for him but I still find myself wanting to ask: Where is home? Why is he here? A case? Family? What?
His finger caressing my cheek brings my attention back to him. “But,” he adds, “an excellent chef makes the stay here more bearable.” He flips the menu to another page. “The pizza is authentic Italian as well and excellent.”
“Lasagna really does sound perfect,” I say, and his second “authentic Italian” comment inspires me to vow to one day visit Italy and compare this meal to the ones I’ll enjoy there.
“All right then,” he says, sticking the menu back in the drawer. “Lasagna it is.”
He reaches over the arm of the couch, grabs the hotel phone from the end table and requests our order, the angle of his shoulder resting in a way that exposes a tattoo I can’t believe I haven’t noticed until now. Oh my God. It’s a paw print that reads “Tobey 1996.” This arrogant, powerful, impossibly good-looking and apparently successful man loved an animal to the point of tattooing his body with his memory.
“Twenty minutes,” he says, settling back down next to me, and surprising me by kissing me. “Do you like wine?”
“Yes. Who was Tobey?”
“My childhood dog. He died the year I went to college.”
“I love that you got a tattoo for Tobey.”
“He was a good friend. The best. Let me grab the wine.” He stands and crosses to a doorway, disappearing inside, and returning as he pulls on a white T-shirt, while I enjoy every second of the stretch and tug of muscles. “Do you have a wine preference?” he asks, hands settling on his hips.
“I have a wide palate for forty-dollar-a-bottle-and-under wines,” I say. “Anything is fine.”
He laughs. It’s a good laugh. Warm. Relaxed. Sincere. “All right then,” he says, crossing the room toward the built-in cabinet behind the chair where we’d played his game. Where he’d spanked me. I’m trying to understand this man who is rich, powerful, and kinky, but also has a paw print to commemorate his love for his furry friend.
“Do you have a dog now?” I ask.
“No,” he says, returning to join me with two wine glasses and a corked bottle of wine in hand. “Dogs deserve time and love that I don’t have to give.”
The same reason I don’t have a dog, I think, well that and I live in a closet. He sits down next to me. “This is a blend,” he says, joining me. “It’s smooth and easy, but I have a pinot and a merlot if you’d prefer?”
“Like I said, I have broad—”
“Forty-dollar-a-bottle-or-under palate,” he supplies, giving a chuckle and pulling the cork. “There are wines to taste and wines to drink. The expensive ones tend to drink like hell.” He fills my glass. “Try it.” He hands it to me.
“Is it under forty dollars?”
“You tell me. Taste it.”
“Why do I feel like I’m being tested?”
“Because you are. Most people can’t tell expensive wine from inexpensive wine.”
