Nuts Page 15

  His response was to scoop me up, throw me over his shoulder in one quick motion, and carry me into the house. “I thought you’d never ask.” Inside, he looked for the stairs. “Which way?”

  Laughing, I kicked up a foot and pointed. With one hand firmly wedged between my thighs, he headed toward them. “I hope you’re up for round two, because I plan on going slow this time.”

  “And you heard me complaining . . . when?”

  “I’m just saying, I hadn’t planned on fucking you on the front porch,” he replied, planting a kiss on my right cheek as he ran (oh my god, he ran!) up the stairs.

  “If you weren’t planning on fucking me, then why the late-night visit?” I giggled, pointing toward my room now with my foot.

  “Oh, I planned on fucking you.” He dropped me onto my bed, where I bounced back into the air. “The front porch was just the surprising part.”

  “How did you know I’d let you?” I asked, coming to rest. Still naked as the day is long, mind you.

  Leo, also still naked and in possession of his own long day, leaned over me. Planting a kiss in between my breasts, he groaned into my skin. “I was hoping you’d let me fuck you.” Another kiss. “And then when I heard what was going on up there—aw, hell, Sugar Snap. You were already up here fucking me, all by yourself.”

  A decent person would blush now. I had blushed when I fell on him, twice. I’d blushed when I thought about his beard, and where else I’d like to feel it tickle me. Occasionally I blushed when he talked so freely about his walnuts. But now? When I legitimately could and should blush?

  I simply took him by the neck, pulled him down to me, and kissed him slow and sweet and long. As his tongue dipped into my mouth, I shivered. The initial itch had been scratched, and now I longed to explore, to taste, to luxuriate in getting to know his body, and how it responded to mine. We fell back onto the bed, lazy and close, the air still thick and still, but now filled with quiet kisses and the insistent creaking of my bed as we rolled and rocked.

  “I think I’ve got some WD-40 in my Jeep,” Leo murmured, and I giggled into his throat. He rolled me on top of him, and I kissed his Adam’s apple.

  “You think I haven’t tried that before? It’s just a squeaker.”

  “You’re kind a of a squeaker too.” He scooted me higher on his body, nibbling as he went. As his lips closed around my nipple, I did indeed squeak a bit. “See?”

  “That was a squeal, not a squeak,” I protested, beginning to pant as he surrounded me with his teeth. I squeaked and the bed creaked and the farmer laughed into my breast.

  “I knew the minute you screamed at that poor bumblebee that you were going to be mouthy.”

  I sat up in pseudo-indignation, crossing my arms over my naked chest. “For the record, that bee and I were going to have trouble the minute I set foot in the forest. They always see me coming.”

  “I’d like to see you coming,” he murmured, running his hands up and down my thighs, encouraging me to sit astride him. “I still can’t believe how tense you get when I mention bees. Are you even aware how tight your thighs are right now on my hips? You’re like a nutcracker.”

  “You really want to talk about bees right now?” I replied, forcing myself to relax.

  “Nope.” He rolled me over once more and slid down my body. “But I’ll take some of that honey.”

  “Honey? Oh—”

  I gave myself over to the feel of his lips trailing down my tummy, pausing to lick lightly just below my belly button. His mouth, planting little kisses from one hip across to the other, his hands sliding up, cupping my breasts, teasing the peaks. I gasped, my back arching again under his touch. He moved farther south, nuzzling at the very top of my thigh. I had been fantasizing for weeks what that beard might feel like between my legs.

  He rested his chin about three inches above where I was dying for him to go. I bumped my hips. He pressed a kiss about two inches above where I was dying for him to go. I moaned, closing my eyes, ready to burst out of my skin at the slightest touch. I was buzzing, crackles of tension beginning to run wild across my body. And yet . . .

  “Do you remember that night in your kitchen?” he asked, and my eyes flew open. Raising up on my elbows, I peered down at him. He once again rested his chin on me, looking perfectly natural and not at all concerned to find himself at the juncture of Please Oh Please and For the Love of God.

  “Kitchen?” I said, trying to keep from squeaking again. I was becoming addicted to his touch, and right now, being so very close to it and being denied? It was maddening.

  It was incredible.

  But mostly, it was maddening.

  “The night you made me dinner, and you sat on my lap and turned the same color as the beets I brought you? Something about liking my beard?” He dipped his chin, running the length of it up and down my yesrightexactlythere. “Something about wanting to try something, I think. Before I shaved it off?”

  “Really? Hmm, I don’t remember.” I nonchalantly slid my ankles down a little farther, bending my knees slightly, and oops. I bumped him with my yesrightexactlytheredammit. “Oops.”

  His grin widened at my oops. My knees widened at his grin. There really was only one way this was going to end.

  “See now, I’m amazed you can’t remember. Whatever made you blush that night, you sure seemed to be thinking about something fairly specific.” He dipped down, running the tip of his nose across my skin, over a valley and a couple of dells. The farmer was very much in the dell. I was panting. I very deliberately slipped my heels across his shoulders, maintaining an air not so much of nonchalance but of . . . whatever was the opposite of nonchalance. My heels and I were the epitome of chalance. “Sure, you can’t remember,” he breathed, his lips mere centimeters from the center of the entire world.

  “I might . . . remember . . . something . . .” I said, feeling a rush of heat spreading through me. The only part of him touching me was his breath, and I was feeling more and more sure I could get off on air alone, providing it was Air Leo.

  “You say it,” he offered, brushing his lips across mine. “And I’ll do it.”

  I was past playing games. As he slid his eager hands along the underside of my thighs, pushing my legs higher over his shoulders and anchoring my hips with his palms, I squeaked. “Please, your mouth. I need your mouth!” I cried. And he complied.

  At the first stroke of his tongue, I fell back against the pillows. At the first nibble of his teeth, I threw the pillow from the bed. At the first moan from his lips, deep into the center of that world, I bowed so hard off the bed I pulled the fitted sheet free. And when he sucked me into his mouth, burying his face and licking furiously, I could feel that beard tickling the very softest part of my thighs. And it was so. Very. Good.

  Worth every squeak.

  “So who are the two old guys?”

  “Old guys?” I asked, not sure where this was going.

  “Over the desk,” he said, referencing the bulletin board. “One of them looks familiar, actually.”

  “They’re Ripert and Bourdain. Celebrity chefs.”

  “Sounds like a French cop show.”

  I laughed. “Anthony Bourdain was a chef in Manhattan for many years; now he’s got a couple of shows on traveling, eating, et cetera. Eric Ripert runs Le Bernardin, also in—”

  “Aha! That’s why he looks familiar.”

  “Makes sense; he’s been on TV forever.”

  He shook his head. “No no, the other guy. Le Bernardin is my father’s favorite restaurant. My parents have a standing reservation; they’re there at least twice a month.”

  Somewhere in the world, tiny chef heads exploded. The idea that there could be a life where you could regularly go to Le Bernardin even once a month—but twice? At least? That was the most decadent morsel of that entire sentence.

  I stifled my own envious head explosion and took the time to admire his posterior from where I was curled up in a comfy ball. Leo had about the cutest butt I’
d ever seen. Round and firm, like two scoops of sexy. It walked, er, he walked, over toward the front window and looked out. “The wind finally picked up again.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Our clothes are all over the backyard.”

  I chuckled, and started to get up.

  “No no, you relax. I’ll go get the clothes.”

  “And I’ll let you get my clothes,” I said, heading over to join him. “I’m going to make us something to eat.” I added a slap to his sexy scoops and headed downstairs.

  Soon we had a few layers of clothing back on, and I was swirling a pan of hot olive oil and garlic. Leo, looking all kinds of rumpled soft sexy in just his jeans, leaned over my shoulder to see what I was making.

  “Smells good.”

  “My favorite smell in the entire world is garlic, exactly twenty seconds after it hits a hot pan,” I said, breathing in the heady aroma. A pinch of crushed red pepper went into the pan next, and a pot of boiling salted water bubbled away on the back burner, filled with big handfuls of linguini. “There’s half a baguette on the counter over there—want to tear off a few hunks? Plates are in that cupboard.” I pointed with my wooden spoon. Technically it was my mother’s wooden spoon. Even more technically, it was my great-aunt Mildred’s wooden spoon. She’d been gone from the earth for many years, but her spoon remained. Stained dark brown from millions of sauces, it was angled on one side, the result of years of stirring.

  I’d thought about that angle many times over the years, often when using it to stir something myself. How many times had she stood in a kitchen stirring a Sunday sauce, or making sure a batch of mashed potatoes had just the right amount of golden butter and milk? How many times had she cooked even though she was exhausted? How many times was she yelling at Great-Uncle Fred while she was stirring something with this spoon? How many times had she used it to punctuate a statement, pointing it into the air as she emphasized something she felt strongly about? Had she ever thrown it in anger? Had she ever made a major life decision while staring down at the soothing, rhythmic turns of the old spoon?

  While I thought about culinary anthropology, the gorgeous man in my kitchen sneaked his hands around my waist and cuddled me close as I stirred. “Smells good,” he said once more. “And I’m not talking about the food.” He dipped his nose into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. “Honey.” He sighed.

  “Yes, dear?” I replied, laughing at my joke as I rolled a lemon under my palm.

  “That fucking honey scent that’s all over your skin, it’s driving me crazy,” he murmured, his breath hot on my skin. “I can’t keep my hands off you—it’s like they have a mind of their own.” His lips traced the shell of my ear, his hands slipping underneath my shirt. His callused fingers, worn rough from hours of hard work, felt natural on my skin. Natural and amazing.

  I pushed my hips back against him. “Pretty sure I know which mind is guiding them.” Unbelievably, after everything that had gone down, ahem, on the porch and upstairs, he’d be ready to go again with just an invitation and quick squeeze.

  Instead, I squeezed the lemon. Dodging his roving hands and very determined hips, I added a handful of fresh chopped parsley to the pan, then lifted big forkfuls of linguine into it, stirring until each strand was coated with the heavenly sauce. “Go grab the plates, please.”

  Frowning, he gave my backside a swat, but went to get the plates. A moment later our plates were on the table, piled high with pasta. He sat down and I stood next to him, grating a little fresh locatelli on top as his hand curved around the outside of my thigh and higher toward my hip. I enjoyed his hands on my body more than I cared to admit, and not just during the sexy times. I squashed the thought. “There we go—try that,” I said, with a final sprinkle of cheese.

  I watched him twirl a forkful, lifting it to his mouth. He chewed, once, twice, a third time before his eyes closed in bliss. That was The Look—the look that every chef craves. What I’d made, crafted with my own two hands, was bringing him pleasure. The rumble from deep in his throat, which I’d heard only an hour before when my tongue did something he really liked, matched the look on his face. He liked my linguine.

  I sat down in my chair, already satisfied, and I hadn’t even tasted it yet. To be fair, I’d been satisfied more times than I could count already this evening. The aglio olio? Was just icing on this very sexy cake.

  We ate in silence, no sounds but the clinking of forks and slurping of noodles. My mother always used to say the test of a good meal is how quiet the guests are: if they’re quiet, they’re enjoying. I’d found that to be true time and time again. Leo sighed through a mouthful here and there, smiled if I caught his eye, but otherwise just ate. It was nice, sitting in a darkened kitchen with him, my knee brushing his occasionally. His foot tapping mine. In the middle of the night, in the middle of the kitchen, sharing a quiet meal was as intimate as what we’d shared one floor above.

  Twirling one last bite around his fork, he stared mournfully at it. “There was a chef in the city who used to cater a bunch of my parents’ parties; he used to make something just like this.” He studied the fork. “Not exactly the same, I don’t remember any green in it.” He ate the last bite and moaned out loud. “Fucking hell, that’s good. His was good, but this is better. His had a slightly different taste, almost, I don’t know, a little nutty? Does that make sense?”

  “It probably had anchovies in it,” I said, sucking down my last noodle.

  He made a face. “Nah, I don’t like anchovies.”

  “No one thinks they like anchovies, but you’ve probably eaten them more times than you think. I put them in pasta dishes all the time.” He didn’t look convinced, so I continued, “The trick is to put them in the pan early, right before the garlic. They’re so tiny and thin, they dissolve right into the hot oil. That’s the nuttiness you were talking about.”

  Still looking a bit disturbed, he poked at the little bit of garlic left on the plate. Checking to see if it was a tiny fish perhaps? “Anyway, yeah, the chef. He’d come over, make some super fancy stuff for the guests, but once things were under way he’d make a pan of pasta just for me. Sometimes he’d throw in something extra, if there was lobster or crab, something like that. But good god damn, it was incredible.” He smiled a little at the memory.

  “Did they have a lot of parties?” I asked, thinking about what a party at the Maxwells’ must have been like.

  “All the time,” he said, his expression changing a bit as he moved away from the pasta memory and onto something else. “There were always people in town on business, or families who were on holiday, deals to be brokered—some kind of bullshit. My family hardly ever ate dinner together. They were either out with friends, or we had friends over, but just our family? By ourselves? Not often. A lot of nights, it was just me and my sister, Lauren. And Angela.”

  “Another sister?”

  “Nanny. Gabriela was there in the morning, but Angela was there afternoons and evenings.” He smiled as he said it, but there it was again, that fleeting sadness. Maybe there was something to the “poor little rich boy” cliché.

  “Where’s your sister now?” I asked.

  “She’s still in the city, works with my dad. She heads up our international division. I don’t see her much.” He looked lost in thought.

  “When we had parties at my house we made ice cream out back with a hand crank, and whoever my mother was dating grilled hot dogs or sausages. Someone brought potato salad, we’d bring coleslaw from the diner, and the adults would play horseshoes until everything was ready to eat. It was all sticky fingers and mosquito bites and half-burned hot dogs and enough Kool-Aid spilled to bring every ant east of the Hudson into our backyard.”

  “Sounds fantastic,” Leo replied.

  I thought back to those lazy days. The sun baking down and everything as bright as a crayon box, and the entire world boiled down to a skinned knee or a stubbed toe. And I realized something all of a sudden. “You know what, it kind
of was.” My gaze traveled around the well-worn kitchen: the scratched linoleum, the little bit of peeling paint, the height chart that was still on the doorframe from when I grew up. I slid my foot across the floor under the table and covered his foot with mine.

  We sat in silence again, this one a little different, heavier. We each seemed lost in our own memories. He, perhaps thinking of a childhood filled with nannies and fancy. Me, thinking of a childhood filled with nothing fancy and full of love, not knowing how rich my life had been.

  Now my world boiled down to a warm foot tucked under mine. And when he rose and pulled me into his arms, then led me back upstairs to my creaky twin bed, I didn’t even think about giving him my standard speech about my insomnia and not being able to sleep with someone else in my bed. I just let him tuck around me and spoon.

  And color me the most surprised when I slept five whole hours that night.

  Chapter 14

  Five whole hours was luxurious. Equally luxurious was the way those hours ended. Soft lips tracing a path across my shoulder, a deliciously callused hand pulling me back against a warm chest, and then—oh!—as Leo thrust into me from behind.

  I came back to this memory over and over again while I worked in the diner, trying to concentrate on steak and eggs, when all I could think about was the way his eyes burned into mine as he fucked me on my front porch. I poured coffee, I flipped burgers, I did what I could to not think about the night before—and the fact that I’d slept with a man for the first time in my entire life. As in forty winks. Mr. Sandman.

  I was deep in piecrust, not thinking about this at all, when Chad Bowman sidled up to the counter looking like he was headed out to Montauk for some boating. Pleated navy shorts, spiffy white Sperrys, and a salmon polo shirt. Not pink, not peach, not sunset or orange. Salmon, for pity’s sake. All that was missing was the knit cardigan around his shoul—And there it was. He tied it into a perfect loop around his broad shoulders and popped a pair of silver aviators onto his blond hair.

  “You look like something out of a catalog,” I said, tugging on his popped collar. The. Popped. Collar. “J. Crew called, you’re wanted on page sixty-nine.”