Page 36 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

And that kiss.

He braced a hand flat against the tile and swore, letting the icy water wash over him. What the fuck had he been thinking, kissing the damn babysitter? It was a recipe for disaster. If he needed to get laid, he could find any number of willing women on the mainland.

Problem was he didn’t just want to get laid. And he didn’t want just any willing woman. He wanted Mallory. He wanted late-night chats and early-morning breakfasts. He wanted spontaneous picnics and walks on the beach. Things he hadn’t wanted to share with anyone in a hell of a long time.

He looked down to find his disobedient dick at half mast and turned off the shower. Why waste water when it wasn’t having the desired effect anyway? He toweled dry, threw on sweatpants and a clean T-shirt, and went in search of Mallory. He found her in the great room, cross-legged on the couch, her face flushed, a half-empty rocks glass in her hand. The bottle of scotch and a second glass sat on the coffee table in front of her, next to a marble cutting board loaded with meat, fruit, cheese, and crackers.

“Sorry.” She lifted her glass, whether as a real apology or a mock salute he couldn’t tell. “I started without you.”

“No need to apologize.” He sat on the opposite end of the sofa, not wanting to tempt fate by getting too close to her, then slid the bottle toward himself and poured himself a generous two-finger shot. The rich amber liquid burned a path down his throat to his stomach, taking the edge off his shitshow of a day.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and examined the virtual feast she’d laid out. Was she expecting the offensive line of the Tampa Bay Bucs? “Nice spread.”

“If you’re half as hungry as I am, there won’t be any left when we’re done.” She cut a slice of some sort of exotic-looking cheese. “Here. Try this. It’s Comté. From the French Alps. They mature it in special caves.”

She inched next to him, holding the sliver of cheese to his mouth. His brain screamed at him to tell her was allergic to cheese cultures or lactose intolerant. Anything to avoid the intimacy of having her feed him. But instead his lips parted, almost involuntarily, and he closed his eyes as she slipped the sliver into his mouth.

“Good, isn’t it?”

Good didn’t come close to describing what he was feeling. She moved closer, so close the hint of scotch on her breath and her coconut shampoo flooded his senses.

“Want some more?”

Oh, yeah. He wanted more.

Eyes still closed, he nodded, his mouth suddenly on strike.

“How about something a little different?” He felt her weight shift forward and heard the scrape of the cutting board as she slid it across the table. “What’s your preference? Fruit? Meat? Carbs?”

He had a preference, all right. But it wasn’t for fruit, meat, or carbs, and it wasn’t one he was going to confess to her. “Surprise me.”

“Feeling adventurous?”

He swallowed a groan. “You have no idea.”

“Then keep your eyes closed and your mouth open.”

Thesnickof the knife on the cutting board was followed by the brush of her fingers on his lips and an explosion of competing flavors on his tongue.

“How does it taste?”

“Rich. Sweet. Creamy.” Like he imagined she’d be if he got the chance to taste her again. “What is it?”

“Camembert and truffle honey.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“It is.” Was it his imagination, or had her voice gotten huskier, more carnal? “But it’s worth it, don’t you think?”

“Definitely.”

“What next? I’ve got some pork rillettes. Or a really nice soppressata.”

“Neither.” He opened his eyes and took the knife from her unsuspecting fingers. “It’s my turn to feed you.”

“Okay.” She opened her mouth and stared at him expectantly.

His lips curled into the start of a smile. Turnabout was fair play, and he was going to enjoy teasing her. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”