They had done it plenty of times before—always in hotels.
But the kitchen? That was new.
The novelty sent a nervous thrill through Grace, especially when his hands trailed over her soft skin, sparking heat wherever he touched.
A light evening breeze slipped through the open window, lifting the hem of her thin blouse. John's arm, muscular and veined, was exposed against the stark contrast of her pale, delicate skin.
Then—
Thud.
Her slipper hit the floor.
They broke apart instantly.
Grace's face burned, her fingers still clutching his shirt, wrinkling the crisp fabric.
"Weren't you hungry?" she mumbled, grasping for composure. "I should finish cooking."
John's gaze, dark and intense, didn't waver. "I am."
He leaned close, his breath brushing against her ear, voice deep and rough. "Eat first. Then sleep with me?"
Her face flamed even hotter.
