Her Valentine Fantasy. Nancy WarrenЧитать онлайн книгу.
night be about to turn around?
“Thanks,” she said, holding the door open so he could enter. “I’ll get your cash.” Which left her with the dilemma of wanting to give him a very generous tip for causing him so much trouble and not wanting to embarrass either of them.
“Don’t worry about it now,” he said. “Enjoy your dessert.” Which meant he was planning to stay for a while.
Perfect.
She realized she didn’t even know his name. Benedict wasn’t one of those Hi, my name is Darrell and I’ll be your server tonight kind of places. It was much too upscale for that. Which meant she didn’t know the name of the guy she was inviting into her hotel room.
Slut! a voice in her head screamed.
Hell, yeah! her inner rebel cried.
Because clearly, following the rules hadn’t worked for her sex life. She’d been following rules so long she’d forgotten the thrill of bending them, even snapping a few now and then. She’d been serious, smart and hardworking all her life. She was the type of friend who never blabbed secrets or forgot birthdays. Which meant that she had a good degree, a great career, was beloved of her friends. But, while she’d been working her ass off in her job as an event planner and listening to her friends bitch about guys, she’d dated men who were too much like her. They put most of their energies into their careers, their sports and their buddies.
She’d ended up with a completely shitty love life.
Which is why, when another dateless New Year’s Eve came around, and her BFF Morgan asked her about her New Year’s resolution, she hastily revised her answer from the planned “increase ab workout to three times a week and lose an inch around my hips” to a slightly tipsy “have some seriously hot sex with a gorgeous guy.”
“It’s going to take you all year to get a decent shag?” Morgan demanded so loud everyone in the vicinity turned. Put vodka inside Morgan and the effect was the same as putting a megaphone in front of her mouth.
“No,” she whispered back, hoping her friend would take the hint. “I’ll do it by—” her mind searched for an obvious have-great-sex-by date “—by Valentine’s Day.”
“Way to put it out to the universe! Hot sex by V. Day. You go!” Morgan bellowed.
And, being the follow-the-rules-type of girl, once the hangover had passed, she signed up on two internet dating sites plus tried to spend fewer nights at the office and get out more socially. In the five weeks since she’d begun, her tally of great sex was exactly zero.
Tonight’s date was pretty typical of her luck so far—a guy on the rise in banking. She’d realized within three minutes that the only way he’d get her naked was if he bored the pants off her.
The waiter, however, was a different story. Everything about him, from the dark brown of his eyes to the wave in his slightly too long hair, to the way he moved, with smooth confidence, got her girl parts humming.
There were moments, when he was describing the chef’s special creations for the evening, that his deep, sexy voice might have been saying, “The first fresh asparagus of the season is lightly steamed and drizzled in basil-infused olive oil,” but what she heard was, I want to take you up against that wall and rub basil-infused olive oil over your body and then lick it all off.
And right then she decided that her problem was that she kept dating workaholic bores. She should totally be dating waiters and ski instructors and golf pros, guys who worked to live rather than lived to work.
It was as if fate, the universe, her fairy godmother or some combination of the three, had offered her a guy who had so much sexual confidence that it was making her light-headed. And who obviously wasn’t too concerned about work, since he’d blown off the rest of his night’s work so easily.
Perfecter and perfecter.
“Would you like your Valentine Fantasy now?” he asked in that low, sexy voice that made her inner thighs quiver.
She didn’t even know his name.
Sex with a stranger. Was that her fantasy?
Maybe. She thought everything about this man and this night was a fantasy. And the thing with fantasies was, they only worked if you totally let yourself fall into them.
She nodded.
The door shut behind them with a click. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his heat, see that his eyelashes were thick and curled. He was tall, his shoulders broad, the black shirt and pants that she supposed were his uniform made him look like an outlaw.
He smelled like chocolate. She remembered that foolish remark she’d made about thinking if sex had a flavor it would be chocolate. She’d been half-joking at the time, but he really did smell like the best, darkest, richest, most decadent chocolate.
She opened her lips, moistened them with her tongue and watched him stare at her mouth as though mesmerized.
Then he flipped open the box and she realized it wasn’t him who smelled like chocolate. It was the dessert. The glorious over-the-top, heart-shaped, raspberry-drizzled, sparkly fantasy of a dessert.
“That is probably the prettiest dessert I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ll tell our pastry chef,” he said, sounding proud. She thought it was cool that a waiter took such pride in his place of work.
There was a tiny pause. She could grab a wad of cash and get rid of him, or she could work on that New Year’s resolution with a gorgeous stranger.
“Would you like to share it with me?” she asked.
“I’d like to share a lot of things with you,” he said, confirming her suspicion that he was as into her as she was into him. Excitement fluttered in her belly. She was so glad she’d packed a few condoms in her makeup bag just in case.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, realizing he’d been on his feet for hours. She indicated the sofa that sat in front of the window.
The suite contained a convenience kitchen and she opened the fridge and removed the bottle of champagne the client had given her today as a small thank-you at the end of the trade show and conference she’d organized. Seemed like the perfect time to open the bubbly.
She grabbed a couple of wineglasses from the glass-fronted cabinet above the sink and a couple of forks from the small cutlery drawer. She passed him the bottle. “Would you?”
“Absolutely.”
She scooted down beside him and he opened the bottle with the most professional of slight pops, no cork banging into the ceiling and champagne foaming on the carpet. He poured wine into two glasses and handed her one.
The wine was pale gold and bubbles chased each other in the depths. Raising his glass in a toast, he said, “To unexpected pleasures.”
His words were casual enough that he could be referring to the wine, but the way he looked at her suggested he was taking pleasure in being there. With her.
The word pleasures had her blood acting like champagne in her veins. She felt light, effervescent. They both sipped and then she reached for the dessert box.
There were four white plates in the cupboard but she was pretty sure she’d make a mess of that pretty dessert if she tried to divide it and put it on plates. She wasn’t the handiest woman in the kitchen. Besides, there was something incredibly intimate about sharing. She left it in the box.
She put her fork into the soft chocolate, taking the very bottom tip of the heart. He watched as she tasted it. “Oh,” she moaned as the flavors burst in her mouth, the smoothest, most sinful chocolate, the sweet tartness of raspberry and hints of almond and something else she couldn’t name.
“Try it,” she said, aware that he was watching her the way she’d been eyeing the chocolate creation.
“Okay,”