Chapter 28

28

Zara

"I do believe that was your first of eighteen orgasms. And I’m only getting started."

"I came…again." My voice is awed, as if I just discovered sex. Which, in a way, I have. Sex with someone you have this connection with is a completely different ball game—pun intended.

"That you did, Fire." He tucks my hair behind my ear. "How do you feel?"

"A little light-headed, like someone shot me out of a cannon and I’m floating down to earth." I yawn.

"You’re tired."

"Just sated." I try to keep my eyelids open, but they seem to be too weighed down. "Maybe I’ll nap just for a few minutes." I press my cheek into his chest.

When I open my eyes, I’m alone in bed, and the light outside has that gray-blue which hints at it being late afternoon. Did I sleep the morning away?

I yawn, then sit up and gasp when I find him sitting at the foot of the bed.

"Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you." He reaches up and cups my cheek. "Did you sleep well?"

I nod, unable to speak. The words seem to dissolve within me… My brain cells don’t seem to be able to put the words together to form a sentence. Heat flushes my cheeks, and he watches my face with interest.

"Did you just blush?"

"I don’t blush," I protest.

"Hate to say it, but I’ve seen your face turn all shades of red in the last few hours."

"Only because you’re a filthy, dirty, man." I try to pull up the sheet but am unable to budge it because he’s sitting on it.

"Don’t cover yourself up. I love your body."

I lower my hands to my sides and take in the T-shirt he’s pulled on over the same gray sweatpants he was wearing earlier. What a pity I can’t see those chiseled abs. On the other hand, Hunter in a worn, black T-shirt that clings to his shoulders, and hair mussed about his face, is both sexy and adorable, and so endearing.

"Come 'ere." I crook my finger at him.

His lips quirk, but he obliges. He leans forward, and I dig my fingers into his hair, pull him even closer, then brush my lips over his. I mean it to be just a quick kiss, but Hunter being Hunter, deepens the kiss until it feels like he’s sucking my breath from my body. When he finally releases me, my heart is pumping, my blood thudding in my ears, and the heat between my thighs threatens to streak up my spine. "Wow." I swallow.

"Indeed," he says with a smirk. "You didn’t think I was going to let you off that easily now?" He rubs his nose against mine. "You hungry?"

"I could eat," I concede.

"Good." He straightens, then walks to the closet in the corner of the room. When he returns, he’s holding a silk bathrobe.

"I think I’d prefer to get dressed."

"I think you should wear this." He holds it out to me.

"You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

He smirks, and it’s so sexy, I can’t stop my heart from doing that little flip-flop in my chest. "Fine, but only this time."

He places the robe around my shoulders, and I shrug into it. Barely have I finished tying the knot around my waist, when he scoops me up in his arms.

"I really can walk." I try to sound angry, but my words come out in a giggle. Multiple orgasms can do that to a woman, I suppose. Also, the dick providing the orgasms is memorable. And as for the man attached to said dick? He’s proving himself to be irreplaceable. I’m reluctant to admit it, but always being the person in charge, and the one who makes the decisions at work… Well, it’s refreshing to lean on someone else for a change. I’ll probably question my train of thought later, but for now, I hold onto his shoulders as he strides into the kitchen. There are pots and pans in the sink, and going by the various open bottles of spices, the chopping board, the bags of half-used vegetables he’s been cooking. I sniff and draw in the heavenly scents of cooking. "You’ve been cooking again," I murmur.

"Indeed, I have."

He lowers me into a chair. A crisp white cloth is spread on the dining table. On it are plates, cutlery, two lit candles, as well as a bucket of ice with a cooling bottle of champagne. "And you laid the table?"

"You have to stop sounding so surprised." He laughs.

"You are Hunter Whittington. London’s most notorious bachelor, alphahole extraordinaire, GQ’s man of the year and one of Time’s most influential people of the year. Not to mention, the person tipped to take the leadership role in this country. To find you cooking and laying the table is?—"

"Just another aspect of me. One I don’t show to the world—" He straightens.

"But which you are showing to me."

"But which I am showing to you," he agrees.

"Why are you doing this, Hunter?" I tilt my head back, and further back, to meet his gaze.

"Why am I cooking for you?"

"Yes, why do all this?" I beckon to the beautifully laid out table.

"Because I want to. Because it’s Christmas, and I’m happy to be spending it with you."

I blink. "Oh shit, it’s Christmas."

"Indeed, it is." He moves around to the bucket, places a white linen napkin over his arm, then uses his other to lift the bottle of champagne. Moet et Chandon Brut. He pops the cork, and the cheerful sound thuds through my veins. He pours the fizz into my glass, then his own. He places the bottle back in the bucket, then lifts his glass. "To us."

"Is there an us?" I narrow my gaze.

"You know there is…” More softly, he adds, “For this moment."

Okay, guess I can live with that. And maybe it would be churlish of me to point that out when he’s gone to such lengths to cook a late lunch for the both of us. But if I agree to it without pointing that out, it could raise expectations—for both of us—and that wouldn’t be fair to either of us. It seems even more important to remind the both of us that this—whatever this is between us—is temporary, fleeting, just two people who found themselves double-booked for the holiday in a cottage, with one bed between them. I wince. A-n-d that sounds like a cliché. One of those situations that the hero and heroine of a romance novel find themselves in. And of course, they end up together.

Unlike us. We’re going our separate ways, come the morning. But for now… In this moment… Yeah, there’s an us. And seventeen more orgasms to go. I raise my flute. "Salut."

"Salut." He takes a sip without breaking the connection of our gazes, and it’s as if he’s dipped his tongue back into the cleft between my thighs.

One side of his lips quirks, but he refrains from remarking. Instead, he bends, presses a hard kiss to my mouth, then straightens and stalks off to the counter. He pulls on a pair of oven mitts and slides out a tray from the oven. He walks over and places it in front of me. The tangy scent of spices wafts up from the dish.

"Roast turkey flavored with cumin, ginger, garlic and five spices, with orange and rosemary sprigs," he declares with a flourish. "And that’s only the main course."

"There’s more?" I exclaim, but he’s walking over to the second oven in the corner of the kitchen, which I only now notice. He pulls out another tray then walks over and slides it over.

"Beetroot and beetroot is my favorite vegetable, after potatoes, that is, but how did you—" I glance up at him. "How did you?—"

"Know it was your second favorite vegetable? Told you, I have my sources. And really, it wasn’t anything to flavor the turkey to your taste."

"Still." I look back at the dishes. I texted the names of my favorite foods to Amelie. But for Hunter to not only know what I like but to also use that knowledge to cook the dishes accordingly? That shows attention to detail. It shows he cares. It shows he’s been paying attention to my likes and dislikes. It shows that he wanted to do something special for me. And I can’t remember the last time someone did anything like this for me.

"Zara, baby, hey!" He places his glass on the table, then hunkers down next to my chair. "Are you crying?"

"Of course, not." I sniff.

"You’re crying."

"It’s just dust in my eyes," I lie without looking at him.

"Hey, Fire, don’t cry, please." He notches his knuckles under my chin and turns it, so I have no choice but to hold his gaze.

"I still can’t believe you cooked all of this."

"I told you, I love to cook."

"And I was fast asleep. I didn’t even help you." More tears run down my cheeks, and he wipes them away with his thumb.

"I looked in on you a few times, but you were so adorable with your eyes closed and burrowed under the covers, I didn’t have the heart to wake you up."

"I don’t even have a gift for you."

"You’re here. That’s my gift, Fire."

"A-n-d you also know the right thing to say." I throw up my hands. "You can’t be this perfect. You can’t."

He leans back on his haunches. "So, you’re upset because I’m perfect?"

"It’s not fair. I’m trying to resist you, and you go and do all of these things that make it impossible to resist you."

He laughs. "And I haven’t even gotten through the rest of the orgasms."

"Don’t remind me." Clearly, I don’t stand a chance. By the time he’s done with me, I’ll have no resistance left in my body. I’ll be a pile of mush—gooeyness without the ability to think straight. I’ll have become his sex slave, not to mention a slave to his cooking.

"You’re thinking so hard, you’re giving me a headache." He takes my glass of champagne and hands it to me. "Have your drink and enjoy. I promise, you’re not going to regret agreeing to stay here with me."

I know for a fact he’s right, and that pisses me off even more. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel this good with him. It wasn’t supposed to feel like I’m going to miss him when we leave. And he cooked for me. Jesus, he cooked for me. A warmth sweeps through me. It’s almost as pleasurable a feeling as the orgasms he’s given me. Almost.

I lift my glass and finally take a sip. The bubbles burst on my tongue. Flavors ofpeach and cherry, citrus and almond, cream and buttery toast. The notes merge, and the confluence of it all sinks into my palate. My head spins, and a burst of happiness sizzles through my veins.

"This is exquisite."

"No more than you, baby."

I chuckle. "You sweet-talker, you."

"Glad you’re feeling better."

"I’m actually really hungry." Maybe I was hangry, or horngry ? That could explain the tears. Yep, I’m sure that’s all it was.

He peers into my face, then nods before he rises to his feet and takes his seat again. He carves out a piece of the turkey and places it on my plate. At the same time, I carefully slice a piece of the pie and place it on his.

He tops up our champagne, then grins. "Shall we eat?"