Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen) (20 page)

The tide of their breathing rocked in a rhythmic whisper, just the two of them distilled to this single moment. She couldn’t remember the last time an orgasm had been that explosive. Probably never, but she preferred the illusion that it had been so good it had messed with her recall. The alternative—that the memory of every man before him had crumbled to dust—was just too much to comprehend.

Eventually he raised her chin with his finger and dropped a kiss on her nose. “I know it’s been a rough day, love.”

In his voice, she heard compassion she didn’t deserve and kindness she had never received from any other man. Jack Kilroy might have just performed a miracle for her physical well-being, but he was big, bad, and dangerous for her mental state.

“I’m not used to being the center of attention,” she said. “It doesn’t sit so well with me.”

A flicker of something hard gave way to a smile that would make the angels sing. “Well, since about three a.m. yesterday, you’ve been the center of my attention. And I intend to keep you right where I can see you.”

Her heart lifted clear through the roof, and she couldn’t let such a lovely declaration go unrewarded. Her lips brushed against the hard planes of his face, taking momentary rest stops on those rock-hewn cheekbones. Twelve freckles—no, thirteen—lay scattered like a starry constellation across his nose. She wanted to memorize every beautiful smudge and contour because, after tonight, she would only have souvenir snapshots. Minutes passed while they slanted to find the best angles, exploring earlobes and eyelids, necks and jaws, and each time their mouths crossed paths, they whimpered in surprise that a kiss could improve with practice.

She combed through his silken hair until she found the ridge of his welt. “How’s your head?”

“Muddled.”

She traced a finger along his swollen lip. “And this?”

He smiled. “That was hot but in the future, we’ll have to negotiate the rough stuff. I can’t risk anything happening to my face. It’s my ticket to fame and fortune.”

“Bighead,” she said gently, and kissed him to stop any more talk about the future.

Moving his hand back under her skirt, he shaped her butt, his calluses brushing fiery tingles across her skin. “I adore this sweet arse of yours.”

Arse.
Why did that word sound hotter and dirtier than
ass
? It must be down to the lips that formed it, the sonorous bass that spoke it. He squeezed one sweet arse cheek, making her mewl. She loved when a man gave her booty the attention it deserved, though with the kind of women Jack dated, she wouldn’t have had him pegged for an ass, or arse, man. For some reason, that made her giggle.

“What’s so funny?” It came out garbled because his hot mouth was sucking on the pulse at her throat, but she got the gist.

“I’m not exactly your type,” she murmured in his ear.

“This should be good. Tell me what’s my type, then.”

“Hipless, top-heavy blondes with sticks for legs. That’s your usual diet.”

“Well, mine eyes have seen the glory of one curvy brunette with a body that won’t quit and a mouth made for sin.”

She chewed her sinful lower lip and drew back to face him. “So you’ll have doubled your options. Just think of all that ethnic skirt you’ve been missing. Italians, Latinas, Jersey housewives…”

“Not interested. I’ve got all the ethnic skirt I want right here.” His words sent stiffness to her spine. He must have felt it, too, because his brow crimped into lines like a corduroy swatch. “Do you really want me to see someone else? Why are you raining on this?”

Because a little rain now was better than a torrential downpour later. Saddling his hot-as-Hades ass with her was not going to help his brand, just like it wouldn’t do a solid for her self-esteem. One kiss had turned her into Celebrity Enemy Number One. A relationship with this guy would put her on every gossip shit list until the end of the decade. Improving the forward momentum of her life precluded detours to her chunky teens; she had come too far to risk a revival of that insecure blob inside her.

She let out a long, shuddering breath and broke out her most reasonable tone. “Jack, you know I can’t date you.”

Pressing her hands to his hard chest, she pushed him away and slipped to a stand. With trembling fingers, she wrenched on her blouse and grappled with the buttons. They ended up in the wrong holes. Typical.

“Can’t or won’t?”

She whirled on him in all her disheveled magnificence. “That concussion must have caused brain damage. There’s the little matter of your rabid fan base.”

“I’d protect you.”

“How? Are you going to punch everyone who says something mean about me?”

“No one messes with what’s mine.”

That, and the accompanying unyielding gaze, turned her legs to swaying reeds.
Mine.
Had one word ever sounded so wrong and so right?

“I’m not yours.”

“Not yet.”

Sweet bursts of pleasure exploded in her chest at the thought of Jack claiming her like a piece of Victorian-era chattel, but as much as her inner girly-girl loved it, she couldn’t allow his outer caveman distract her from the real problem. The fallout from dating him would set back her recovery, a risk she was unwilling to take. She dug her nails into her palms to kick-start a return to the twenty-first century. And her very twenty-first century needs.

“I can’t date you but I’d still like you to stay.” She hoped she didn’t sound overly eager to get them back to the business at hand, specifically her need to be tuned up by a guy who knew his way around a woman’s body without having to program a GPS. Waking up with those beefy arms wrapped around her was secondary. It was on the list, too, but farther down, after orgasms and foot rubs.

He struck a challenging pose, real cock-of-the-walk stuff. They stood facing each other, the tension delicious and strung between them on a wire. Determined to hold her ground, she stared, unblinking, until his bright eyes dimmed, and she knew she’d won.

“No,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“No,” he repeated.

By the time she’d mustered her wits, he was already at the door. “That’s it? You’re…you’re leaving?”

“No, I’m fake leaving.” He turned, his face a mix of disbelief and frustration.
Right there with ya, bud.
“I told you I don’t do one-night stands.”

“I’ve seen you with women in magazines and on TV since Ashley.” He had told her about his sex drought, but it was hard to reconcile that with the parade of beautiful women he escorted to premiere parties and glittering galas. Of course, she was nothing like those women. Her gaze fell to her underwear, mocking her on the tile floor. Turned down twice by the same guy in less than twenty-four hours…A horrible thought poked at her.

“Was this some pity-the-big-girl thing?”

Uh-oh. Colossal mistake.

He marched over, his expression so stormy that the room skewed and she backed up against the edge of the table. Roughly, he grasped her hand and mashed it flat against his hard chest, vibrating with a thunderous beat.

“Don’t ever say anything like that again. How can you even doubt my attraction after what just happened here? When all I can think about is burying my body inside you?” Still covering her hand, he dragged it against his rock-hard abs and finally, his erection. She gasped. He was firm and hot beneath her palm. He was huge. “Feel that? I’m so fucking hard for you that it hurts, but I’ll suffer because I don’t want to be with a woman who doesn’t want to be with me. And I mean really be with me. Not just in my bed.”

Her mind flailed as his words thunked against her skull, their mix of certainty and entreaty shaking her to the core.
Really be with me.
He wanted someone to see him for who he was, not Jack Kilroy the icon, just Jack, the regular guy in her kitchen. Tonight he’d offered a glimpse of his soul, and though she was drawn to him like no other man, there was no escaping the fact he was indeed like no other man.

He released her and stepped back out of her greedy reach. She hugged herself and tried to hold on to his heat in her still-tingling hand.

“Yes, there have been women since Ashley but I haven’t slept with anyone. I’m tired of using and being used. The disrespect. This last year has been…” He paused and scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it adorably mussed.

“It’s been what?” What she saw in his face devastated her.

“Forget it.”

“You mean with Ashley and all the interviews?”

“That, my sister, my father—” He shook his head as if he had remembered who he was talking to. The woman who was only interested in getting a dirty thrill. The woman who didn’t merit his confidences.

“Lili, I don’t know you very well but you’re clearly not ready for this. Maybe this Twitter crap is too hot to handle or since your mother’s illness, you can’t even recognize what you want anymore.” He gave another head shake, sadder now. “I thought there was something here, but I was mistaken.”

Her heart splintered at his words. He was tired of her excuses and she couldn’t blame him. She deserved his contempt.

Dazed, she followed him to the door, her limbs as leaden as sacks of flour, numbness stealing across her body. What was wrong with her? She got her earth-shattering orgasm and she didn’t even have to touch his penis. Not officially. For a lot of girls, that was a win-win.

Damn, but she wanted to touch his penis.

She wanted to give him what he’d given her. A little joy, some shared comfort, because he needed it as much as she did. And yes, she was selfish and wanted more. She didn’t know what exactly, she just knew she wanted.

He already had one foot on the stair to the street. In two more seconds, he would be gone from her life. Steeling her spine, she swallowed and spoke to his departing back.

“I was the fat chick.”

He halted, a wall of stock-still strength, and her breath trapped in her chest. That checked breath gushed out when he turned to reveal an inflexible expression.

She heard the anger in his breathing before he spoke. “I won’t stand for you putting yourself down like that.”

Rubbing her collarbone as if it could grant her three wishes, she reached back to the most painful period of her life. “No…no, I don’t mean now. I mean then. Past tense. In high school, I was
that
girl, the fat girl, the one people laughed at. Body by Tortellini. I was bullied every day because of how I looked and was made to feel worthless. It took a couple of years but I eventually shucked the fat suit and put it behind me.”

Had she put it behind her?
Clearly, not far enough. So what if she had a little junk in the trunk? Her curves were a helluva lot more reliable than any man in keeping her warm at night.

“I’ve got a big butt and big boobs and I know I don’t square up to society’s ideals of perfection, but I like it. I like how I look.”

In place of the pity and platitudes she expected, she got his raw, consuming stare filled with some unnamed emotion. Annoyance or disgust, perhaps. His eyes, ice-frozen during her speech, watched her with uncompromising focus.

“You’re not the only one who likes it.” Voice low, heated, he stalked her. Slow and predatory. Pure, unadulterated sex.

She beat a hesitant two-step retreat, but her back met the door frame. “What I’m trying to say is that it was a tough road, but now I’m fine.”

“So fine,” he murmured as he closed the space between them. Oh Lord.

Passing over his compliment, she also tried to pass over just how small she felt in his potent presence. He was so big. So vital.

“Dating someone like you would leave me exposed to all sorts of hate I don’t deserve.” Her voice spiked on “exposed” like she had spoken a word she’d only ever seen in print and was unsure of its pronunciation. Under his hard scrutiny, she felt exposed, more so than when he had brought her to scorching release. More so than when she had read the hateful comments of strangers. “I can’t go back to feeling like that girl. She’s in the past.”

The muscles in his jaw tensed. “So because of who I am, we don’t have a shot? Who cares what people say? Isn’t it enough that I think you’re beautiful and sexy?”

This is what she hated about hot guys. That warm and fuzzy feeling she got when one of them anointed her as worthy. Well, she was supposed to get the warm-fuzzies, but right now, she was pissed at herself, at him, and the whole effed-up situation.

“I don’t need you to tell me I’m beautiful and sexy,” she lied, her throat burning with unshed tears. “I know I’m beautiful and sexy, and I was doing just fine before you crashed my life party.” At his stricken expression, she realized how accusatory her outburst sounded. “I didn’t mean that the way if came out.”

To the rigid jaw, he added a healthy muscle tick. “You were doing just fine until I showed up and put you in the middle of a media tornado you don’t want or need.”

Maybe she
had
meant it the way it sounded. Had she been doing fine? Darn tootin’! She’d been chugging along at an even keel, no muss, no fuss, and then Jack Kilroy did a hatchet job on her cozy existence.

He crossed his arms, drawing her gaze to his thick, muscled forearms. Very underrated eye candy, forearms.

“So let me get this straight,” he said. “If I hadn’t been in that walk-in minding my own business or you hadn’t been strolling by that alley at three a.m. wearing a Wonder Woman costume or you hadn’t pitched that skillet at my head—”