Undercover Lovers Read online

  He tried to tell his feet to move, to tell his hands to take Saffron’s and lead her to his car. He lived eighteen minutes away in rush hour; at this time of night, less than ten. In less time than that, he could be balls deep inside her.

  Saffron draped her arms over his shoulders, holding him in such a casually intimate pose, he could have believed they’d been doing this together for years, instead of just minutes.

  “I won’t tup you here,” he murmured, more of a reassurance for himself than for her. He had to say the words aloud. Had to get his body to understand to dial it down a notch. Just a hair.

  “You wouldn’t respect me in the morning if I let you,” Saffron reassured him gently.

  Not exactly a no.

  She tilted her mouth to his again, letting him take possession for a few minutes more. And every stroke of his tongue against hers, every time he breathed in her sweet air to delve in for another soul-clenching kiss, it was possession he took. August lifted her leg, his hand caressing over hose, rising higher, pushing the damned dress out of his way, higher still. He stood between her legs, heat from her body coaxing him closer. His hand cupping the soft curve of her ass.

  Not here, he warned himself again. While his rational mind had one idea, his hands and cock were already two steps ahead.

  Chapter Four

  Was it possible to love the way a man kissed more than Saffron did right now?

  She didn’t think so.

  August consumed her voraciously, as if an appetite had been whetted and could not be satisfied no matter how passionate their kisses, how deep her moans. How wanton her whimpers.

  Nothing around them mattered. She vaguely recalled there’d been some reason she’d met him in the first place.

  Oh wait. Right!

  “August…” His mouth continued to nip. To explore. “August, please.”

  She cherished the way he held her now, fingertips digging into the flesh of her thigh, his prominent erection pushed hard against her abdomen. Instinct urged her to tilt her hips a little, aligning their bodies so the delicious contact that resulted would put his cock against the juncture leading to her sex.

  He pulled back and placed his forehead against hers. She breathed him in, watching the gorgeous man struggle to regulate his own breathing. “Of course,” he said, his hand kept smoothing over her upper thigh. “Not here.”

  It was more than the location, but the hard fact she needed to come clean with him that bothered Saffron. If they were going to take things further—and hell, yes, she planned on going all the way—he needed to hear the truth. The subtle way she’d avoided answering him about her exact job might have served her earlier, but to continue on, not telling him the rest of it made her stomach a little queasy.

  “Not just that—”

  The sound of a train rumbling past broke through her speech.

  August’s eyes went wide. “My God, was that your stomach?”

  Horrified—mortified—Saffron blushed furiously. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” she mumbled.

  “Come on, Saffron. What kind of an animal must you think I am to starve you like this.”

  “Wait…”

  “Let me take you to my house, liebling, where I will feed you from my own hands and then make love to you until the sun rises.”

  Well hell.

  “Sound like a plan?” he asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  Those weren’t the words supposed to be spilling from her mouth. She should have been telling him that she had a deadline. That before the night was over, she needed to sample his restaurant’s food because she’d be facing the unemployment line if she had to wait another four months to get a reservation. By then, Restaurant Week would have come and gone anyway. The one little edge she had on her competition poofed and begone.

  But if she told and he didn’t get pissed off enough to send her away, the other edge she had on him would similarly vanish. A chef on show simply wouldn’t be the same as a chef in his natural environment, prone to the same mistakes and foibles of any cook.

  As she considered her situation, she realized an especially delicious twist on being with August now. He’d treat her to a private showing of his skills. With just the right nudge, perhaps she could get him to pull out all the stops. To present something that would make every newspaper around the country clamoring to syndicate her column…

  And what a totally assholey thing to do.

  “Second thoughts?”

  August’s voice penetrated her concentration. Saffron finally realized they’d stopped walking and stood before a black sports car. He gripped the open door she stood before, but had obviously not advanced toward yet. “No, I’m sorry. I mean, I haven’t changed my mind.”

  Holding on to the skirt of her dress, she lowered herself into the car. No, she hadn’t changed her mind, but she needed to figure out a game plan before getting to his house.

  Plans evaporated as she snuggled into the plush interior. It was clean and masculine, with a hominess to it that should have seemed out of place. Sniffing the air, she realized why.

  She waited for him to buckle up before pouncing. “Am I smelling McDonald’s french fries? I am, aren’t I? I know that smell.”

  After turning the key in the ignition, he glanced at her, embarrassment lighting his face even in the dim car. “They’re good.”

  Saffron snorted in surprise. And then the giggles kicked in. “McDonald’s? Really?”

  “They’re good.”

  The car pulled away from the parking lot and the back of her mind whispered some little warning, but Saffron ignored it. “You said that already. But shouldn’t you be eating pommes frites made in white truffle oil or something?”

  He chuckled. “Listen, just because I serve high-end food doesn’t mean it always hits the right spot. And don’t forget, after being on my feet for fourteen hours, the last thing I want to do is go home and cook something for myself. McDonald’s is only a few blocks from the house. Sometimes, there’s just nothing better than scarfing down some hot, salty, greasy fries. Say what you want about the place, but they know how to make those things.”

  “You’ve got a good point, but it’s just funny to me. You don’t let the media near you, so I guess what I know about you comes from a lot of preconceived notions.”

  “Is that your way of getting me to open up about myself?” He grinned, but kept his eyes on the road.

  The journalist in her perked up. “Why not? What would you say if you had a camera stuck in your face right now?”

  Grunting, he said, “To get out of my fucking way.”

  Saffron slapped his thigh. “Not an option. Tell me what you want your fans—and you have a ton of them, I can tell you—and people in general to know.”

  Silence passed while he mused. The pause gave her a minute to study the sharp angles of his face and the gentle slopes of his lips. The contrast was meant for running her fingers over, to trace the contours in precision study. “That I’m a stereotype who just got lucky. I’m temperamental and prone to bursts of creativity. I’m your typical type A and want things done my way. I’m just someone who likes to cook.”

  The last sentence was almost mumbled and Saffron’s eyebrows narrowed. “Are you being humble or do you really mean that?”

  He reached for the key and turned it. She glanced in surprise at their surroundings, noting they’d come to a stop in front of a lovely ranch-style house.

  “I’m just a cook who got lucky. It’s true.”

  She reached for him, laying her hand on the same thigh she’d just accosted. “I hope you don’t really believe that. You are an amazing chef. How many Michelin stars do you have?”

  “Two.” A whispered admission.

  “Two. Do you know how many chefs around the world would kill to get even one? The reviews about you are always glowing; the wait to get into your restaurant is insane. Heck, I came to your place tonight in hope…”

  Tell him now, her conscien
ce encouraged. Tell him before things went too far and it’s an apology instead of an admission.

  “Yes, liebling?” He leaned closer to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Why did you come to my restaurant tonight?”

  The confession teetered on the tip of her tongue. I came to get ahead of my competition by tasting your food. I hoped like hell I’d get a sneak peak at your menu for Restaurant Week. I dreamed you’d let me get close enough to get an exclusive no one else has ever managed.

  “I wanted…I hoped…to meet you.”

  Her eyes slipped closed when his mouth brushed hers. With the delicate touch of his lips, her apprehension evaporated into the small space. So did the confession.

  By the time he pulled away to exit the car, her insides trembled. Now wasn’t the time to tell him the reason she wanted to meet him. They’d eat and she’d tell. Or maybe she’d tell him while he cooked. Or maybe, once they got out of the car, she’d gather the courage. One way or the other, she’d tell him before things got too far.

  If they hadn’t already.

  August opened her door, took her hand and helped Saffron out of the car. Between the heels she rarely had the opportunity to wear, the dress she’d slipped on despite feeling uncomfortable with how it clung to her jiggly bits, and the serene surroundings, the evening seemed the stuff made of dreams.

  Somehow they went from the car to the kitchen as if magicked there. She supposed she’d been too caught up in the warmth of his hand, the comfort of his presence and the knowledge of why she was even here at all.

  “So,” August said, once they stood in the middle of his kitchen, “this is my home.”

  The kitchen gleamed, as in sparkled like something from a cartoon. Unlike her own disorganized cooking space, there wasn’t a single cluttered surface. The stainless steel appliances shone as if polished on a daily basis and the sundry kitchen items present in most households were mysteriously delinquent from view.

  Saffron scanned the countertops, looking for crumbs, hell, even a fingerprint on the pristine surfaces. No such luck. No matter where she looked or ran her fingertips, all evidence pointed to the fact August couldn’t possibly be human.

  “Your place is immaculate,” she said with a note of admiration.

  He continued to stack miscellaneous items in his arms, not answering until he’d returned from a trip to the refrigerator. As he laid out milk, eggs and raspberries, he said, “It only takes one report from the health department and I’m shut down. If I don’t live it, I can’t expect my staff to work it.”

  “Admirable.”

  About to get out of his way, Saffron went still when August approached her. He gripped the counter behind her with both hands, trapping her between him and the island. Time slowed when he lowered his head, his lips sweeping over hers with such promise, she almost decided the food could wait. “God, I could just eat you up,” he muttered. “I don’t get it. I’m not normally like this, but you are…so…beautiful.”

  After that admission, he’d have to pry her out of there with a crowbar.

  “Thank you.” Her cheeks heated up for the hundredth time tonight, but looking back at him, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind he meant what he said. The passion in his eyes was too raw to be faked.

  “A light snack until dinner arrives, yes?”

  She nodded hesitantly. “I already had scallops and now something else before the other courses? You keep plying me with food and eventually, you’ll have to bury me in a piano box.”

  Blue eyes darkened. “I love your curves. It would be my pleasure to make certain you stay curvy, just the way you are now.”

  Letting that thought sink in, he moved away with lightning fast efficiency and she almost called him back. The press of his body against hers sent a very good kind of tremor shuttling through her muscles. Still stunned by his amazing attention though, Saffron climbed onto a nearby stool to watch him work.

  “Help yourself to some Riesling that’s in the fridge. Glasses are in the cabinet next to it,” he said, a few minutes later while whisking eggs, flour and other things she couldn’t keep up with. “It’ll go well with these.”

  The smell of sweet raspberries filtered into the air. Her stomach rumbled again with appreciation. “What are you making?”

  “Crepes.”

  If there was anything hotter than a gorgeous man cooking over a hot stove for her, Saffron hadn’t come across it yet.

  Chapter Five

  “Ideally, the batter should rest first.” He shrugged his shoulders. Ideally, he’d have a stock of aphrodisiacs to serve her. It couldn’t hurt, right? “But this is light enough not to spoil dinner while making sure I don’t starve you.”

  After hopping down, she crossed the room, stopping next to him to retrieve the glasses and wine. He watched her peer into his refrigerator and stifled a smile as she stood before the contents. It probably looked like a chaotic assortment of greenery, items wrapped in cellophane and tin foil and a variety of liquor bottles. There was no such thing as leaving the job behind in his world. When he came home, his pantry and fridge fueled the creativity that kept his restaurant ahead of the others.

  Saffron located the bottle he’d meant and retrieved it. With a sommelier’s grace, she withdrew the cork and poured two glasses. Not before inhaling the floral bouquet and then taking a precautionary sip.

  Watching her turned him on like he couldn’t believe.

  “Chef,” she said, offering a glass to him.

  His fingers brushed hers as he took it. Sexual awareness warmed his hand, despite the brief contact. If he looked as needy as he felt, she should be running scared.

  He shifted his gaze away, not wanting her to see or sense his eagerness. August laid a spatula on the counter and with deft moves of his fingers, flipped the crepe in the pan. “You know I’m not very good at this.”

  Saffron frowned. “This again? You’re a great chef and now I’m actually starting to think you just want to hear me say it over and over again.”

  He chuckled. “No, I mean, this. Us. I’m supposed to be learning more about you or telling you more about me.”

  “Oh? Is there a manual that says so?”

  August poured more batter into the pan, almost immediately afterward swirling it until it spread enough to coat the bottom. “Isn’t that what women want? A man who talks about himself and shares his feelings?”

  She snorted. “Only if that’s the kind of person he is, I suppose. That really doesn’t sound like my type, though.”

  “What is your type then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He arched a brow as he slipped the done crepe from the pan. Without having to think about the process, he started another one. “You must know what you like or don’t like. Everyone has a type.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, do you like a man who wears his heart on his sleeve?”

  “Ugh. No.”

  Thank God. “Okay, then what about someone who’s always going on about his feelings? You know, the kind who cries with you at tissue commercials.”

  She laughed. “Can’t say that would do anything for me.”

  “What about someone who’s a little more…forceful?” He glanced at her when he said the last word.

  “Forceful how?”

  The raspberry compote simmered in a small saucepan. When a small bubble of the fragrant mixture popped, August withdrew a wooden spoon from a drawer and set to work stirring the fruit before it clung to the pot. Once satisfied it hadn’t cooked beyond redemption, he removed it from the heat. The spoon went into the sink, but for some reason, the flat plastic spatula still laying next to the stove caught his attention.

  Instantly, a series of decadent thoughts involving Saffron and the spatula raced through his mind.

  Fuck, he could just imagine turning her over his knee and lifting the hem of that pretty black dress. Ever so slowly revealing thick, delicious thighs covered by sheer hose and then higher up to a pair of
white—no, black—panties, damp with her juices and stretched tight over an ample ass.

  Just thinking about it made his hand tingle with anticipation. To slap his palm against her soft flesh over and over again until her skin flushed a deep pink made his dick stir. The thought of maybe even adding the spatula into his play awakened the rest of his libido.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly, swallowing hard, “maybe a type A asshole who’s set on getting his way.”

  “But what happens if he doesn’t?”

  “Never mind that. He always gets his way.”

  “You sound very sure of yourself.”

  August slipped the last crepe out of the pan. With a different, small off-set spatula, he spread a light layering of raspberry compote on each crepe. Saffron remained standing by the stove while he gathered a large serving plate and a fork. “This is where the forceful part comes into play, remember? Now sit.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “First tell me why do you keep looking at that spatula and then back at me.”

  He almost laughed out loud. If only she knew… “Sit first.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation from her, during which he wondered if maybe she really was having second thoughts. He couldn’t blame her. They moved at a reckless speed. But then Saffron sat. Before she could cross her legs, though, August stepped in between them.

  The pace of her breathing quickened, her breasts rising and falling in what he hoped was anticipation. Reaching for the fork and plate beyond her with one hand, he slid the other onto the soft flesh of her thigh. “Now open your mouth,” he said softly.

  Looking into his eyes, Saffron did as he commanded. As August lifted the fork topped with raspberry filled crepe to her mouth, he slid his other hand beneath the hem of her skirt. At the same moment her lips closed around the food, his fingers wrapped around the cloth of her panties. She hummed a soft noise, looking at him from beneath hooded lids. “So good,” she practically purred.

  “Yeah?” He fed her another bite and then another. All the while keeping his hand against the softness of her skin. So close to uncovering her pussy, but not nearly close enough.