Page 18 of Bottles & Blades
I set the knife on the drying rack, turn around, and…
Freeze.
Christ. I thought the robe was bad.
The expanse of her legs on display, the material parting with each movement, tempting me.
Her pajamas?
Fuck.
When did simple cotton ever look so sexy?
On Tiff it does.
The long-sleeved T-shirt clings to her wrists, her forearms and biceps, her…
Breasts.
My curse rumbles up in my chest, and I barely bite it back.
I’ve always been a breast man, and the pair that Tiff has been hiding are magnificent—high and round, perfect to fit in my palms as I hold them, kiss them, tease the hardened peaks of her nipples. They push against the plain black fabric of her shirt and the material cups them back just as lovingly.
“What are you doing?” she asks, pausing, her brows dragged together, her head tilting to the side.
I tear my gaze from her tits and drag it back up to her face, though not without taking a detour to the curves of her hips, the thighs I want wrapped around my waist. “Come here, baby,” I murmur.
Her eyes go wide, but to her credit, she starts walking again.
But only for a second.
Because she trips, and I lunge toward her, our bodies colliding as I wrap an arm around her waist to steady her.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
Considering I get to feel those gorgeous tits pressed to my chest, I’m not thinking any apologies are necessary. I soak in that feeling, know that I’m a fucking scumbag for enjoying it, even as I’m unable to set her away from me.
Thankfully, her stomach rumbles again before I say what I’m thinking out loud, and it gives me something to do besides being a pervert.
I draw her back into the kitchen. “Here,” I say, taking the plate and all but shoving it into her hands. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”
She takes it, and I expect her to sit at the tiny round table pushed into the corner, or to maybe take it to the couch.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she just holds the plate and stares down at it. “Why did you do this?”
“It’s not fancy,” I say, feeling oddly hesitant. I look away, snagging the opener I found in one of the drawers, along with the single wine glass, and pour her some of the Petite Sirah I brought. She put back a bottle of cabernet this morning, but Oak Ridge produces an award-winning Sirah.
Was I trying to impress her when I chose this bottle from my wine fridge?
Of course I was.
Am.
Which is why I get my shit together and draw her over to the tiny excuse for a couch, set the glass on the coffee table.
She looks up and her expression is…unreadable. “Jean-Michel?”
