Room Service. Jill ShalvisЧитать онлайн книгу.
a purely mischievous, trouble-filled one.
My, Grandma, what big teeth you have. Really she needed to get herself together. But he was so yummy she hadn’t yet decided whether to smack him or grab him. And then he leaned in, brushing that slightly rough jaw to her ear, the friction of his day’s growth against her soft skin making her shiver.
“Do you mind?” he whispered, his voice low and husky. “If I kiss you?”
Kiss her? She wanted to have his firstborn!
“Just for show,” he murmured, drawing her in closer as if she’d already agreed.
Em’s mind raced. He didn’t look like the toads she’d been with lately. He didn’t feel like a toad. But would she ever really know unless she kissed him…?
No, it was crazy; it was beyond crazy, letting a perfect stranger touch her, much less kiss her, but something about his mocha eyes, about what she saw in them—places and experiences she’d never even dreamed about—made her let out a slow, if unsure, nod.
He rewarded her with a smile that finally met those eyes of his. And then he lowered his mouth.
The two women behind him, the ones who’d been laughing at him only a moment ago, both let out shocked gasps.
That was all Em heard before her mind shut itself off and became a simple recipient of sensations. His lips were firm yet soft, his breath warm and delicious, and on top of it all, the man smelled so good she could have inhaled him all day long.
As a result, her lips seemed to part by themselves, and at the unmistakable invitation, her prince let out a rough sound of surprise and deepened the kiss, his fingers massaging the back of her head at her nape, his other hand sliding down, down, down, coming to rest low on her spine, his fingers almost on her butt, anchoring her to him.
Oh, my.
And the kiss…it didn’t make any sense. She didn’t know him from Adam, but somehow she felt as if that weren’t really true, as if maybe she’d always known him, as if her body recognized the connection even if her brain couldn’t place him. Confusing, bewildering, but she held on to him as if it didn’t matter. And he kept kissing her, kissing her until she felt hot everywhere, until she was making little sounds in the back of her throat that would have horrified her if she could have put together a single thought.
It was as if he knew the secret rhythm that her body’s needs responded to, as if they’d been lovers before.
And yet it wasn’t real. Logically Em knew this, even through the sensual, earthy haze he’d created, but it also seemed shockingly profound. And nothing, nothing at all, like a simple toad’s kiss.
Then he lifted his head, her perfect stranger, and for one beat in time looked every bit as flummoxed as she.
But the moment passed and he smiled—a smile that was sin personified. She tried to respond in kind, she really did, but all she managed was to open her mouth, and quite possibly drool.
With one last stroke of his hand up her spine, a touch that conveyed a carefully restrained passion, he pulled his arm free, and when the elevator doors opened, he pushed his gaping friends off the elevator.
Then turned back to Em.
She stood there blinking like an owl, unable to shift her tongue from drool mode into talk mode.
“Thank you,” he said.
Thank you?
“I’m in your debt.” His voice was far tighter and more tense than it had been before the kiss. Interesting.
And then, just like that, the shockingly sexy, charismatic man walked away.
Still gaping, body still pulsing, Em became vaguely aware that the elevator doors closed again. Her heart pounded, her knees shook, and she stood there like a stunned possum until the elevator doors once again opened.
A few people got on.
At least she finally managed to close her mouth, then leaned back against the mirrors, happy for the support.
There was some talking around her but her brain couldn’t process the words.
When the doors opened again, everyone got off and she had to laugh at herself.
She was back on the lobby floor.
“Get it together, Harris,” she told herself, and even hearing her voice seemed funny. She sounded shaky, a little off her axis.
A little? She’d fallen right off her world, that’s what she’d done.
Shrugging, she once again hit the button for the twelfth floor, wondering when the doors had opened there and she’d missed it.
During the kiss?
Or after, when she’d been rendered a mass of sensual nerve endings incapable of doing anything but reacting?
Because of that kiss. The mother of all kisses. The kind of connection a woman dreamed about but was never really certain even existed, except in romance novels or the movies.
How did a man learn to kiss like that?
Given her reaction to it, that sort of ability should be registered as a lethal weapon.
And she didn’t even know his name…
When the doors opened on the twelfth floor, again, she stopped hugging herself and stepped off, still in enough of a daze to do so without her roll-on luggage.
She ran back onto the elevator and grabbed her belongings.
Then she headed toward her room, unable to help but wonder if the rest of her trip was going to prove as adventurous as the first few minutes had been.
And that’s when it came to her, what the women had called her glorious stranger.
They’d called him Chef.
2
To: Maintenance
From: Housekeeping
Check the air vents and temp regulator on elevator 2A. Guest seen coming out of it today looking dazed and flushed.
JACOB HILL walked through the employee quarters, located on the second sublevel. Employees were treated well at Hush, probably because the creator of the hotel, Piper Devon, was a genuine, caring people-person, no matter that the press liked to call her the original Paris Hilton. That was because they saw only a gorgeous blond trust-fund baby. But anyone who’d ever worked for Piper knew the truth. She worked her ass off, especially on Hush.
Jacob moved through the cafeteria toward the locker room. There he received a few whistles and catcalls, and when he got close to his locker, he saw why.
A pair of black satin panties hung off the lock.
“Another thong.” Jon, one of the doormen, stood at the locker next to Jacob’s, changing for his shift. He was young, in his early twenties, and staring at the panties as if they were a choice cut New York steak. “It must be two times a week you get them,” he said, bemused. “All I ever get is dumped.”
Jacob gingerly removed the thong and tossed it to him. “Merry Christmas.”
“Seriously, Chef, I want to know.” Jon looked down at the satin in his hands. “What’s your trick? I mean you get phone numbers, presents…give up the secret, man.”
Jacob opened his locker and said nothing. There was nothing to say. After all, he didn’t purposely do anything to gain women’s attention—it just happened. A lot. He’d enjoyed it far more when he’d been young and stupid, when he’d happily worked his way through the line of women that had come his way.
He still enjoyed a woman’s touch, her scent, her body, her everything, but lately, something had changed. He didn’t seem to have quite the same patience for the game.
Was he getting old at