CHAPTER 7

The covers were now pushed to the bottom of the bed. He held me curled with my back against his chest, my legs pulled slightly into my stomach. He’d arranged me how he wanted me then skimmed his fingers from my hip past my knee. God this man’s touch drove me wild even in my sexually exhausted state.

“You hungry?”

The words broke the spell, but it took me a moment to switch from the prefrontal cortex orgasmic part of my brain to the lateral hypothalamus hunger part of my brain. He waited patiently, never stopping the lazy slide of his fingers.

“Starving.”

In one fluid movement, he rose from the bed, totally unconcerned with his nakedness. I looked at the hand he held out. My nudity caused me to hesitate.

“Um.” I sat up, ignoring his hand, and made a grab for the rumpled sheet.

His fingers closed around mine. “Naked, in my kitchen…now.”

“No way,” I yelped.

I wasn’t sure what to expect with my rebellion, but even so, I was surprised over what I got.

His dimples flashed and be began laughing. “You’re something else, you know that, Legs?”

Should I be insulted or not?

He walked over and picked up my panties, then snagged his underwear from his pants. He tossed mine on the bed while gracefully stepping into his.

I pointedly looked at the other clothes on the floor.

“This is the only concession you’re getting.” He had that steel tone back in his voice.

Before I knew what he was doing, he snatched up my panties and grabbed my foot. We fought over my underwear for all of two seconds before his hands pressed both of mine to the bed.

“Too late. Hold still.” The gruff words held a challenge, and all the fight went out of me.

“Come on,” he said as soon as he had my underwear in place.

My heart thumped painfully against my chest and my core began its delicious ache all over again. He latched his hand to mine and jerked me up, pulling me reluctantly behind him.

This was not happening.

He stopped in the center of his kitchen and turned. His head dipped and he devoured every inch of me with his eyes. I stood still, fighting the need to cross my hands over my breasts.

“You are the fucking hottest woman I’ve ever seen.” His voice came out in a low, throaty growl. “I watched you at that fucking party, couldn’t take my eyes away. I wanted to beat the holy hell out of Stump, take you to the closest room, wrap those endless legs around my hips, and fuck you until you screamed.”

My hands remained at my sides and my legs turned to Jell-o.

“You’re not a screamer, though.” His dimples flashed as heat raced to my cheeks. “We’ll need to see if I can change that.”

Damn. I seriously didn’t know if my legs could hold me up any longer. He turned and grabbed a hand towel from a drawer beside him.

“Here.”

I stared down at the black towel then looked back up in question.

“For the bar stool where I want you sitting while I cook. And do not,” his eyes went to my breasts, “cover those tits.”

I stood frozen.

He pulled me in close, his hands going to my ass as he whispered against my ear, “Look, baby, I’ve eaten that pussy and sucked those tits. I know them intimately. Don’t feel embarrassed or ashamed. I’ve dreamed of you naked, here in my house.” He breathed a few times. “I’ve conceded more than I want, so fucking work with me, okay?”

The words held a slight edge, but his eyes looked desperate. I took a breath, backed away, and walked to the barstool. I neatly laid the towel on top and then turned, hitched my foot up onto the top rung, and lifted my body slightly so I could sit. His eyes followed every movement and I felt an incredible sense of power slide through me.

Yes, I felt a touch of modesty, too, but I also watched almost every inch of Killian’s unadorned, ripped body move around the kitchen. This man was gorgeous, and while he prepared our meal, he flicked his eyes my way countless times and made me feel the same.

I had to fight laughing over the thought of sitting mostly naked, after the best sex of my life, in Killian MacGregor’s kitchen. I couldn’t help my shy grin, but a small part of my modesty floated away.

I followed his graceful movements in wonder as he slid open the large freezer door. The refrigerator in my apartment would fit inside. I watched as he removed a casserole dish and frozen steaks that appeared cooked.

“Marty, my cook, does my shopping and comes in once a week to prepare meals. He cooked these on the grill so I can just heat everything in the oven. We’ll have a salad first while they warm.”

He arranged the glass dish and steaks in the oven then began removing more items from the fridge.

“Do you want my help?” I was impressed that my voice sounded almost normal.

“No, I’ve got this. A salad I can handle. Warming food I can handle. If there ever comes a time that someone needs me to cook from scratch, I’ll beg for help.”

My smile widened. “You can’t cook.”

His dimples flashed. “If it comes from a can. When you meet Marty, please don’t piss him off. I need the calories and there are too many preservatives and toxins in takeout. He keeps me fueled.”

Killian thought I would be around to meet his once-a-week cook. Could a smile actually split someone’s face?

He placed large glasses of water on the counter, followed by our salads before sitting down beside to me. He didn’t bother with a towel; his black boxer briefs covered enough of him that I guessed he was comfortable. My panties were skimpy lace and I was glad for the layer of soft cloth covering the stool.

I stabbed assorted lettuce and vegetables with my fork before lifting it to my lips. His eyes followed the movement, so I stopped before opening my mouth, wondering silently about what grabbed his attention.

“It’s hard not to fuck you right here, right now.”

His eyes smoldered, making my entire body go hot.

“Wearing clothes would have helped with that,” I said flippantly.

His eyes actually went darker and traveled over every inch of my exposed skin. “You really think so?” he asked once his eyes came back to mine.

I was so glad for the towel.

I ate without tasting anything.

“Where do you run?” he asked after my first few bites.

“Uhh, around campus.” Please don’t let me return to broken-up speech patterns, I thought to myself.

He grinned. “Define campus. How far do you run?”

This was a safe subject, so I managed to control my stuttering for once and answered in probably the longest sentence I’d spoken thus far.

“About fifteen miles a day. I begin at my apartment and have a measured route so I can keep track of my time and distance. Twice a week I run with the team. That schedule will pick up after the first of the year, but for now it’s my off-season routine.”

“Spend the night.”