A Sip of You (The Epicurean Series) (19 page)

Or maybe a lot.

“Open your robe wider.”

I slowly pulled the material aside, inch by inch. William didn’t speak, but he was riveted to the screen. I pulled one side of my robe open, then the other, and allowed the material to slide down my breasts, tantalizing them with the silky material and exposing them to William’s hungry gaze.

“Touch your breasts for me, Catherine,” he said softly.

I palmed them, their heavy weight aching for him. Leaning back, I arched my back and plucked and rubbed at my nipples until they were dark pink and hard, needy points.

“How does that feel?” he asked.

“Mmm, that feels
so
good. I wish you were here now. I want your mouth on my tits. Do you like it when I say
tits
?”

“It’s fucking hot. I love your tits.” His voice sounded breathy and hoarse.

Still circling my swollen flesh, I purred, “I love it when you suck my nipples. Hard.” I looked at the screen directly. “Like you did on the jet, William.”

“I know you do. Show me where you feel it when I suck you.”

“I can feel it all the way…” I stroked down my abdomen.

“Lower,” he ordered.

I stroked my hand across the front of my thong, slowly. I had imagined me seducing William, but I was slowly losing control of this seduction. He was taking command, telling me what to do, and I loved it.

I kept rubbing my fingers across the scrap of lace between my legs. “I’m wet for you already. I can feel it through my panties. Just thinking about your mouth does that to me.”

He groaned and shifted in his chair. His right arm moved, and I smiled. I had a pretty good idea where that hand was going and I thought I heard the sound of a belt unbuckling and then of a zipper. “You look so unbelievably sexy right now, Catherine. Show me where else you want me to touch you.”

 “Are you hard for me, William?” I teased. “Are you thinking about me touching you? Are you imagining me stroking you, running my hand up and down your big, thick cock? I love your cock, you know.”

“Fuck,” he hissed. “I’m rock hard for you. Don’t stop. Tell me. Where else do you want me to touch you?” His breath came in pants, and my own was just as ragged.

“Here.” I feathered my fingers across my lace panties again.

“Show me.”

I pushed my thong aside and slid a finger over the moist skin. “I’m so hot here. So swollen,” I panted, pressing my finger to my clit.

“Think about my tongue on you. You know you love it when I lick you hard and make you squirm and scream.”

“Yes.” I closed my eyes and could easily imagine his mouth there, imagine him teasing me to climax. I moaned as a shiver raced through me.

“Move your tablet,” William demanded in that deep voice that made me weak. “I want to see you.”

“Now who’s being naughty,” I said, though I felt my cheeks heating. I might be embarrassed about this in the morning, but I couldn’t refuse him. I moved my tablet so it was pointing more toward my lower half. “But then you’re always naughty.”

“Open your legs a little,” he said, and it was like he was in the room with me.

“Why?” I asked, wanting him to say it.

“You know why,” he growled. “Tell me, Catherine.”

“You want to see my—you want to see me?” I was so turned on now and my heart was racing as I parted my legs.

He grinned at me, eyes so large and dark I could hardly make out their color. “I want to see what’s mine. More.”

I opened my legs wider and ran my fingers along my clit. “Is this good?”

“That’s perfect. Now show me what just thinking about me does to you.”

I was panting now, hardly able to hold the orgasm back. Still, I knew I wouldn’t let myself come without his permission.

I closed my eyes again and I reached down and rubbed, sliding one finger inside. “I’m so wet for you. I want you inside me.”

“Use two fingers.” I let his voice caress and command me.

I dragged two fingers down, slid them inside. “Like this?”

“Just like that. Don’t stop.”

My hips were writhing, and I could hardly remember to speak. I slid my fingers in and out, in and out. I could imagine him stretching me, filling me, pounding me. I let out a low moan. “I’m so close, I want to come for you,” I said between gulps for air.

“Not yet. Keep touching yourself for me. Tease me. Make it last, Catherine.”

My hips pivoted, my body moving in the rhythm he and I knew so well. Finally, he said, in a strangled voice. “Come for me. Now.”

My hips bucked, and I pressed my hand hard against my sex as my muscles shuddered around my fingers again and again. “That’s right,” he said in approval. “Come for me, beautiful girl.”

A few minutes later, I opened my eyes. I must have dozed off for a sec. I looked at my tablet screen and he was still there, watching me and looking just as satisfied as I felt. I smiled at him. “I’ll have to call you again at the real 11:42 a.m.”

He laughed. “I won’t get any work done, waiting for your call. And I’m definitely not going to get any more work done tonight.”

“You should go home and get some sleep,” I said as I yawned. I needed sleep too. I was totally exhausted and I could already feel the effects of my buzz wearing off.

“I will. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” His warm, velvety voice wrapped around me. “Good night, girlfriend.”

I smiled lazily. “Good night, boyfriend.”

His face was the last thing I saw before I fell asleep.

I heard a buzzing sound and pried my eyes open. Sunlight blazed into my bedroom, and I squinted and reached for my phone, the source of the sound that had woken me. I had a text from William.

Good morning, video vixen. You were incredible last night. Can’t wait to see you later and sample your cooking.

I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head. I was never drinking again. Not only was I hung over, I was mortified. What had I been thinking? Drunk dialing William? Or had it been a drunk booty call? It wasn’t even a call. It was an e-booty call. The whole incident was sort of a blur, but some details were definitely very, very clear. I groaned into my pillow again.

I had never done anything like that before. Clearly the alcohol had relaxed—no,
eliminated
—my inhibitions. Had I really—?

I pulled the pillow tightly over my head and wished I could go back to my peaceful drunken slumber. The things I’d said! I couldn’t believe I’d been so…well, dirty. But I also couldn’t believe how hot it had made William. How hot it had made me. Maybe if I could summon the nerve, I’d try it sober.

I pushed the pillow off my face and texted William back.

Excited about tonight too. XO

And I was excited. Tonight was finally going to be the night I said
I love you
.

After a shower and a very large cup of coffee, I called Beckett. I hoped he was feeling better than I was. He’d promised to help me with dinner for William tonight. I hadn’t been drunk enough to think I could cook something edible without a little—or a lot—of help. Beckett answered right away, which I took as a good sign. “Hey, how are you feeling today?” I greeted him.

“Great! How about you?”

“Not as great. You will not believe what I did—”

“Hold on a second, Cat.”

I frowned. Usually Beckett was all about juicy tidbits from my life—or anyone else’s. He had a subscription to the
National Enquirer
. I heard what sounded like a timer going off and a clatter of dishes. Was Beckett cooking?

“Hey, I’m back,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“Um, yeah. Can I call you later?”

I felt a nervous flutter in my belly. “Yeah, but I’ll see you this afternoon, right?”

He hissed in a breath. “Uh…”

“Oh, no! Beckett, you cannot bail on me.” The nervous flutter escalated to mild panic. I felt flushed and my heart thumped.

“Cat, I’m so sorry. Something came up, and I can’t get out of it.”

I waited for him to explain or elaborate.

“You’ll be fine. Just make something simple. You can do this, Cat.”

So he wasn’t even going to explain? “Beckett, seriously, I don’t care about dinner. What is going on with you? What’s with all the secrecy?”

There was a long pause. “I told you. I can’t talk about it yet.”

“Did I do something? Are you pissed off at me?”

He laughed. “No. Not at all. It’s just work stuff. I can tell you soon, and it’ll be good for both of us. You know I always look out for you.”

That was true. “I’m trying to look out for you too, Beckett,” I said. “I don’t understand why you can’t tell me. I can keep a secret.”

“Just be patient. Everything will be revealed in time,” he said in an overly dramatic voice. “In the meantime, I have to go. Have a fab dinner!”

That wasn’t likely without Beckett’s help. I laid my head on the table, hoping it might stop aching for a few moments. I needed water. I needed a plan. I was so not a cook. Why had I told William, Mr. Gourmand, that I would cook for him? Why was I even pretending I could cook something more than a Lean Cuisine? I sat and downed another gulp of coffee, trying to ignore the way my stomach rolled. Cooking was not rocket science. I could do this. I just had to figure out what to make.

Pasta? My throat tightened, and I swallowed back nausea.

Okay, maybe Mexican. My stomach clenched in revolt, and I had the feeling I’d have a distinctly greenish tinge if I looked in the mirror. I doubted much was going to sound very appetizing to me this morning. William knew I wasn’t a cook. He wasn’t going to expect a three-course dinner.

And then I had an idea. I almost smiled—except my head hurt too much. I really thought it would work, but I was going to need help. Beckett was doing his James Bond routine today, so I was going to have to go with my second choice: Minerva.

I pulled on a sweatshirt and shoes and headed downstairs. The Himmlers, Minerva and Hans, lived in the condo under mine. I hadn’t seen much of them lately, but other than Beckett they were my best friends in Chicago. Minerva had been an opera singer in her day, but it was her talents in the kitchen I was after right now. I knew first-hand that Minerva’s desserts would curl any man’s toes.

I knocked on Minerva’s door, and she answered a few minutes later, looking like she was ready for her close-up in a long black silk robe with feathers at the neck and wrists, her hair in a neat chignon, and her make-up perfect. She looked like she belonged in Hollywood. A delicious aroma wafted into the hallway through her open door.

“Catherine! How lovely. I just baked some Pfeffernüsse, traditional German cookies. They’re Hans’s favorite. You will have one with coffee,
ja
?”

She cooked in that outfit? Obviously, I had come to the right place. “Actually, Mrs. Himmler, I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something today.” I explained that William was coming for dinner, and I wanted to make him something wonderful for dessert.

“Smart girl,” she said with a nod. “The way to a man’s heart is definitely his stomach. Come inside. We will decide on a recipe sure to make him fall in love with you.”

“Thank you!”

Minerva’s condo was laid out much like mine, but hers had a very European feel and was filled with antiques and memorabilia from her opera career. Hans sat in a comfortable chair by the fire reading the paper. He looked up and smiled at me, but Minerva waved him back down when he tried to rise. “We will be in the kitchen.”

I gave Hans an apologetic look and followed Minerva. We perused a few of her cookbooks, which were all written in German, but I could study the pictures. We decided on a
Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte
, which was several layers of rich chocolate cake with whipped cream and cherries between each layer, decorated with chocolate shavings and more cherries. It looked decadent and delicious and Minerva promised me it would make William my slave forever. I made a list of the ingredients, and Minerva and I agreed to meet back at my condo in an hour. She wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to use my AGA.

I’d barely unpacked all the groceries when Minerva showed up, wearing a frilly apron to protect her black slacks and red blouse. She bustled into the kitchen and got right to work. I helped with the simple things like sifting the flour and measuring the dry ingredients, but Minerva handled the whipping and mixing, and the stirring and folding. As she worked, she hummed happily, the tune undoubtedly from some aria she once sang on stage in front of thousands of adoring fans. I knew the look of contentment on her face. I’d seen it on Beckett’s a hundred times. On William’s too.

“So how is your William?” Minerva asked, as though reading my thoughts. “You are cooking for him,
ja
? That is a good sign. He’s handsome, that one.” She smiled almost dreamily. I loved that even my nearly eighty-year-old neighbor wasn’t immune to William’s charm and good looks.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her the torte was going to be the only thing I cooked. It was the thought that counted, right?

When the torte was in the AGA, I made Minerva a cup of coffee and we leaned on the kitchen counter. “So are the two of you in love?” she asked.

I felt a flush creep up my cheeks. “Am I that obvious?” I asked.

“Only because I know you. You would not cook for just anyone. It must be love.”

I wanted to believe that. “How did you know you loved Mr. Himmler?”

“Ha. Some days I’m not certain I
do
love Hans. The man can be infuriating.”

I thought of Hans in his brown cardigan, sitting in the chair by the fire, quietly reading the paper. He didn’t look infuriating.

Minerva continued. “Is love something you know, Catherine, or something you decide? Your heart”—she touched her chest—“has made its decision. Now your head stands too much in the way. You young people think love is something you feel all the time. What is it you say?
I fell out of love
. No.” She shook her head. “When it is
true
love, you make a decision to love no matter what comes. Do you know how long Hans and I have been married?”

I shook my head.

“Last week we celebrated fifty years.”

I blinked. “I didn’t even know. Congratulations. I should have brought you a gift.”

She waved my suggestion away. “Thank you, but we have everything we could ever want. The point is, do you think I have been in love with Hans every day for the last fifty years?”

“Yes?”

“No! There have been many days, sometimes entire years, when I was not in love with Hans. I didn’t even
like
him! “

I couldn’t imagine fifty years with William. It was a lifetime. “What kept you married during those years, then?”

“I made a decision to love, Catherine,
ja
? I made it here.” She touched her temple. “And here.” She touched her heart. “You cannot trust
feelings
. Relationships are like those carnival rides.” She made a wave motion with her hand.

“Roller coasters?”

“
Ja
. Some people get scared when they speed too fast or go upside down. They never see how the ride ends. They jump on another ride, only to abandon it also when they grow bored or restless.” She leaned close. “Decide to stay until the end of the ride. Yes, it will not always be pleasant, but frightening twists are worth the exhilaration at the end.”

I saw far too much of myself in Minerva’s analogy. Whenever my relationship with William frightened me, I jumped off. He, however, was steady. He never seemed to doubt his feelings for me. Tonight was my chance to tell him I didn’t doubt mine for him. I had decided to love, no matter what.

***

I didn’t hear from William for the rest of the day, and I finally texted around five to make sure he was still coming.

Be there at seven.

His message seemed a bit abrupt, but I figured he was probably in the middle of a meeting. A half an hour before he arrived, I set a beautiful table with a white tablecloth, candles, and the flowers I’d picked up at the corner store. I had pizza from this little place I loved warming in the AGA. I knew pizza wasn’t quite on par with salmon mousse or Warm Oysters with Champagne Sabayon, but it was edible. Not to mention warm and gooey with a crispy thin crust. It smelled delicious.

I’d also picked up a six-pack of beer and two bottles of red wine. I made a salad—okay, I opened one of those bags of salad mix and poured it in a bowl—and I had my pièce de résistance, the chocolate torte, on a pedestal in the kitchen. Or perhaps I was the pièce de résistance. I’d changed into the sexiest lingerie I could find, which happened to be a set William had brought back with him from California. I had on crotchless black lace panties, garters and black silk-stockings, and a leather bustier. I’d pulled on a short black skirt, high black leather heels, and a little cardigan. The bustier pushed my girls up and out, and I didn’t think I needed anything more to attract William’s attention.

I felt a little naughty in the crotchless underwear, but I felt sexy too. William was going to love it.

He buzzed at two minutes to seven, and then was upstairs and knocking on my door moments later. Laird woofed, but I waved him back and opened the door. I stood for a moment, framed in the doorway, but he barely glanced at me. He leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Hello, Catherine.”

Okay, so maybe the leather didn’t do it for him. I stepped aside to allow him to pass, and watched as the delicious smell of pizza hit him. “Smells good,” he said. “What are we having?”

I smiled. “Pizza.”

He gave a short laugh. “Pizza? Great.”

Something was obviously bothering him. Maybe work hadn’t gone so well. Or maybe something new had surfaced with the Wyatt situation. “Can I get you a beer? There’s wine too,” I added. “I thought we might have that with dinner, but I can pour you a glass.”

“A beer would be fine.”

I felt his gaze on me as I walked to the kitchen. He looked great in dark jeans and a leather jacket. He’d probably shaved before he’d come over. He didn’t have a five o’clock shadow, and his hair was smooth and perfectly in place. When I returned to the living room, he hadn’t moved or taken off the jacket.

I handed him a beer and he drank without even looking at the bottle.

“I hope it’s okay that I got pizza. There’s this little Italian place around the corner. They make everything from scratch.”

“It’s fine. Take-out is fine.” He shifted and then his gaze met mine. My heart seemed to slow and slam into my chest. His eyes were a cold blue, no trace of warm grey in them at all. “I need to tell you something. Show you something.”

He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a large manila envelope. He opened it and slid a photo out. I stared at it for a long moment, not certain what I was seeing. And then I gasped. It was a black and white photo of Jeremy and me standing on the street in front of my car. Jeremy was kissing me.

For a moment I didn’t understand. Jeremy hadn’t kissed me…and then I remembered the goodbye kiss. It hadn’t meant anything. It had been completely innocent, but it didn’t look that way in the picture. It didn’t look that way at all.

“Want to tell me exactly what’s going on?” William asked, voice cold.

I shook my head. “It’s not what you think.” It sounded so cliché, like I was some sort of philandering husband. I tried again. “That picture. It’s not…Listen, don’t read anything into it. It was just a kiss. It wasn’t…how it looks.”

“I’m not stupid, Catherine.” He threw the photo down, and I watched as the image of me and Jeremy fluttered to the floor. Oh my God, this was bad. Very bad. William wasn’t stupid. How was I possibly going to explain? “That guy wanted you. I knew it that night, and I know it now. All the picture does is bring into question your feelings. Do
you
want him?”