Authors: Regina Kyle
As much as he wanted to lock his friend in a closet and throw away the key, Cade couldn’t argue with him one bit.
“A
NYBODY
HOME
?”
Ivy stood just inside the front door, the house eerily quiet. Uneasy goose bumps prickled her skin, making the hair on her arms stand on end.
For the past few weeks, she’d come home to the TV blaring, or music playing, or male laughter—or cursing—mixed with gunfire from the Xbox. It was scary how quickly she’d gotten used to the noise. So much so that its absence made her uncomfortable.
“Cade?” She headed into the living room. Maybe he was taking a nap. Or maybe the guys had come by and gotten him out of the house for a change. He was in a walking cast now, and the doctor said he could resume light activity, although he didn’t think Cade was ready to tackle the two flights of steep, narrow stairs to his apartment yet. They’d probably taken him to the Half Pint for some watered-down beer and a game of darts or pool.
Or maybe he’d fallen and hit his head and had been lying unconscious on her bathroom floor for hours. It was supposed to be the most dangerous room in the house...
“Cade?” She quickened her steps to the point where she was almost running. “Are you okay?”
“In here.” His voice came from the dining room just off the kitchen. “But don’t come in yet. I’m not ready.”
“Ready for what?” What was he doing in there? They never used the dining room. Most nights they ate dinner at the big oak table in the kitchen or in front of the TV.
Just like an old married couple.
She shook off the ridiculous thought.
“It’s a surprise,” he answered. She heard what sounded like glass breaking, and he swore. “I’m all right. And don’t worry. I’ll replace your sister’s casserole dish.”
“No big deal.” Ivy tossed her pocketbook onto the easy chair. “I’m sure she won’t even miss it.”
“Sit down. Relax. There’s a glass of pinot grigio and a plate of bruschetta on the coffee table. I’ll come get you in a few minutes.”
For the first time since she entered the house, she noticed that the lights were turned down low. Two scented candles burned in decorative jars on the table next to a wineglass and platter of toasted bread topped with mozzarella and tomato. She flopped onto the couch, kicked off her Chuck Taylors and took a deep breath.
Orange and cinnamon. Nice. Soothing.
She tipped back her head and closed her eyes. It had been a busy day at the nursery, followed by another birthday party, this one for a rambunctious three-year-old. As good as the bruschetta looked, a catnap was screaming her name. Just a few minutes of shut-eye—and maybe a quick shower, she thought, scratching at a bug bite on her elbow. Then she’d have her second wind and be ready for whatever Cade had in store for her.
She was halfway to dreamland when his voice broke through her semislumber. “Hey there, Rip Van Winkle.”
She groaned and covered her eyes with her forearm. “So that’s how you see me. A hundred and fifty years old with a beard down to my waist.”
“Right.” His voice was a low, sultry drawl and she let it wash over her. “That’s exactly how I saw you last night when I was deep in your sweet pussy.”
A flush crept up her cheeks. One of the things she’d learned about Cade was that he liked to talk dirty. And one of the things she’d learned about herself was that she liked when he did.
Ivy lowered her arm to find him looming over her, his blue eyes smoldering. He looked ridiculously appealing and extremely sexy at the same time in khaki cargo shorts, a powder-blue T-shirt and a bright yellow apron with a picture of a penguin in a chef’s hat that read I Kiss Better Than I Cook.
“Not exactly a ringing endorsement of your culinary skills.”
“I don’t know.” He looked down at the apron then back at her. “I’m a damn good kisser.”
“Says who?”
“Says your screams and moans.”
Her face burned hotter. “I do not scream.”
“So you admit you moan.”
“I admit nothing.” She blinked herself awake and sat up. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about or what?”
“I’ve got a better idea.” He held out a hand to her. “How about I show you instead?”
She took his hand and stood, catching sight of her freak-show hair and sweaty face, complete with a dab of birthday cake on her nose, in the mirror above the old player piano against the far wall. “Can I take a shower first?”
“Why don’t we shower together after dinner?”
At the mention of food, her stomach let out an embarrassing grumble, reminding her that she’d passed up lunch in her rush to get to the birthday party. She plucked a piece of bruschetta off the plate and popped it into her mouth. The flavors of the fresh tomato and mozzarella, mixed with hints of garlic, basil and even a touch of crushed red pepper, exploded on her taste buds. “Holy crap, that’s good. Where did you learn to cook like that?”
He shrugged. “We all take turns at the station. Plus, like your mom always says...”
She joined him in repeating one of her mother’s favorite sayings. “If you can read, you can cook.”
She snared her wineglass and took a sip. The crisp, refreshing pinot grigio was the perfect complement to the rich, ripe taste of the bruschetta. “If the main course is half as good as the appetizer, I can hold off on the shower. Even if it means I have to wait to see you naked.”
He held a hand to his heart and staggered back as if he’d been shot. “You wound me. Choosing food over fornication.”
“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” She took another look in the mirror and cringed. “But I should at least wash my hands and face and run a brush through my hair.”
“You look perfect to me. But go ahead, if you insist. Just don’t take too long. Dinner’s almost ready.”
As if on cue, the oven timer went off. Cade blew out the candles and shuffled into the kitchen. Ivy broke the land speed record washing up and whipping her hair into shape before joining him in the dining room.
“Wow. This looks...amazing.”
He’d gone through a lot of effort, that much was certain. Instead of candles, he’d used strands of white lights for romantic effect, stringing them overhead from one side of the room to the other and dangling them in the windows behind the sheer curtains. The table was covered with a lace tablecloth he’d found who knows where, and in the center stood a vase of gerbera daisies that looked like they’d been freshly cut from the garden out back, lit from beneath with soft, blue LEDs. Somehow, he’d even managed to scrounge up two settings of her grandmother’s old Wedgewood and topped them with cloth napkins, folded into fans. Wooden holders held Scrabble tiles from the ancient set in the cabinet under the stairs, spelling out their names next to each plate.
“I’m glad you like it.” He pulled out the chair in front of the plate with her name beside it and gestured for her to sit.
“How did you do all this?” she asked, following his lead and taking a seat.
“I had a little help from my friends. Hansen hung the lights, Sykes put together the centerpiece and Trey was my sous chef. He left just before you got here. But the napkins were all me. I watched this chick do it on YouTube.” Cade beamed like a kid who’d gotten a gold star on his report card. “Martha something-or-another.”
Ivy chuckled. “Martha Stewart?”
“Yeah. That’s her.”
“Why?”
“Why did I watch that Martha chick? Because she’s good at this stuff. She can make a freaking swan.” He shook his head in a mix of disbelief and admiration. “A swan. I tried. It’s hard. It took me an hour to get the fans right.”
“Not her. This.” Ivy waved an arm around the room, gesturing at the lights, the centerpiece, the Scrabble place markers.
“I wanted to say thank you.” He reached across the table to lift a bottle from a marble wine chiller and topped off her glass.
She took a sip. “For taking you in?”
“That.” He put the bottle back in the chiller. “And for putting up with all my bad habits.”
“Bad habits?”
“Leaving the toilet seat up. Forgetting to put the cap on the toothpaste. Having friends over without asking first.”
“Oh, that.” She raised her glass in a mock toast. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You were great with the guys. They really like you.” He trailed a finger down her arm, bare below her shirtsleeve, and she shivered, almost spilling her wine.
“I like them, too.” She set down the glass before she dropped it altogether. “Well, maybe not Trey so much. Did you know he has a poster of the Kardashian sisters in his bedroom? All three of them.”
Cade arched a brow at her. “The more important question is how do you know?”
“He told me. Said I reminded him of a redheaded Kourtney. Or maybe it was Kim. I always mix them up.”
“His idea of a compliment, I’m sure.”
Her uncooperative stomach chose that moment to rumble again.
“Is that your way of letting me know you’re ready for the first course?” Cade teased.
“First course?” She gaped at him. “How many are there?”
“Four.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “There’s the bruschetta, salad, main course and wait until you see what’s for dessert.”
“Well, then.” She unfolded her napkin—as much as she hated destroying his Martha Stewart–worthy handiwork—and set it in her lap. “I guess we’d better get started.”
* * *
“H
OW
’
S
THAT
?”
C
ADE
tightened the blindfold around Ivy’s head. “Can you see anything?”
“No.” She put a shaky hand up to the black silk covering her eyes. “Not a thing.”
“Good.” He took both her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. “Nervous?”
“I don’t know.” She licked her lips. “Should I be? I’ve never had someone blindfold me to eat dessert before.”
“Trust me. You’re going to like this.” He stepped backward, leading her.
“Where are we going?”
“Not far.”
“You’re not planning anything kinky, are you?”
“I plead the Fifth.” He stopped in front of the sofa and eased her down onto it. “Now sit still and be quiet. You ask too many questions.”
“Will it involve whipped cream and genitalia?”
“What did I just say about asking questions?” He smiled, then, remembering she couldn’t see him, leaned down and brushed a kiss across her lips. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back. And no peeking. That would mean you don’t trust me, and we can’t have that, can we?”
“We certainly can’t,” she agreed, her voice laced with sarcasm.
He whistled as he retreated to the kitchen. A few minutes later he returned with a tray of assorted desserts. He’d sent Hansen, the only one of the bunch he could trust to be discreet, to the Rolling Pin with instructions to bring back “something sexy.” His friend had procured a box labeled “petits fours”—tiny cakes and éclairs, little tarts and pastries. Then Cade had added a couple of touches of his own.
He set the tray on the coffee table and sat next to Ivy. “This may get a little messy. You should take that pretty top off.”
“This old thing?” She flicked the hem. “It was at the bottom of my drawer. I only wore it because I haven’t done laundry this week.”
“Still, I’d hate to ruin it.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
She lifted the shirt over her head and dropped it onto the couch behind her, leaving her in a lacy, pale pink bra that barely contained her double Ds. It was so sheer he could see right through to her nipples, which practically poked holes through the fabric, telling him she was as turned on by their game as he was.
And it was just beginning.
“Better?” she asked, breathless.
“Much.” He reached around her to make sure the blindfold was still secure. “But not good enough. Lose the bra.”
“I won’t argue with you there.” She undid the clasp and let the straps slide down her arms. “I spent a fortune on this thing.”
“And I’ll bet you have matching panties, too.”
The bra fell away and she was naked from the waist up. “Mmm-hmm. A scrap of silk, held up by two flimsy ribbons. Wanna see?”
He did. He loved her frilly, impractical undergarments. A total contrast to the mostly conservative clothes she covered them with. Like the woman herself. All business on the outside but naughty underneath.
But they had plenty of time for that. Tonight was all about Ivy, about pampering her, about making her feel wanton and reckless and desirable.
“One step at a time, sweetheart.” He picked up a cream puff, scooped up a dab of the filling with his finger and ran it over her lips. “Hungry?”
“Depends what for.”
“For this.”
He coated his finger with filling and brought it to her mouth. She took it inside and sucked and swiped until it was clean, sending a jolt of lust directly to his crotch and making his dick stand at attention.
“Good?” he growled.
“Delicious. You should try some.”
She sighed and leaned her head back against the couch, and he was almost positive that under the blindfold her eyes were wide and glassy with desire. Not that it was coming off anytime soon. He was having way too much fun, and so was she.
“I think I will.”
He smeared the rest of the filling around first one areola then the other, finishing them off with a dollop atop each nipple. “You don’t mind if I use you as a table, do you, darling?”
“A little late to ask now, isn’t it?”
“Oops.” He swiped at the underside of one breast with his tongue, catching a bit of the cream. Sweet, but not as sweet as her creamy flesh. “My bad.”
“All is forgiven if you keep doing that.”
“This?” He cupped her breasts in his palms and took another swipe. “That’s just a warm-up. This is the main attraction.”
His mouth closed over one nipple.
“Please.” She grasped at his shoulders. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“Like I said, I’m just getting started, babe. Maybe you could distract yourself. Think about shutter speeds or aspect ratios or something.”
“How do you know what an aspect ratio is?”
“See?” He chucked against her soft skin. “It’s working already.”
He moved to the other breast. She moaned then gasped as he nipped her with his teeth. He continued to torture her, drawing her into his mouth and lapping and suckling until she was making soft, mewing sounds. She returned the favor, making him groan by slipping her hands under his shirt and threading them through the hair on his chest.