Frankly, Cameron wasn’t sure if he was talking about the wine or about her.
She seemed so different tonight: less stiff, more soft. Less cautious, younger and, Christ,
sexier, too. Was it just being in her own space that had wrought such a change in her? It made him wonder what space she inhabited on a daily basis that made her seem so tense and sharp all the time.
From the moment he walked through the door, he’d known that maintaining his thin veneer of disregard was going to be impossible. The way her huge brown eyes had widened, doelike and soft, as she gazed up at him? He was a goner. He’d gladly stand in her doorway forever if she’d look up at him like that for the rest of his life.
And of course he had to torture himself by wondering if those eyes went all wide and soft as she climaxed . . . or did she close them as her lips parted in ecstasy? Likely goddamned fucking Olson knew the answers to both questions, and it made Cameron’s blood boil.
He glanced over at her as she lifted the wineglass to her face, bending her head just a little, her eyes closing slowly as she inhaled the smell of the wine. She was a fucking work of art, this woman, and—Holy Christ!—the way she’d just purred “Ahhh, this one”? He was glad the denim of his jeans was still thick and new. Hopefully it would keep the fabric from tenting.
He watched, mesmerized, as she righted her head. Her eyes were still closed, but her voice was warm as honey, slow and smooth, as she murmured, “Candied black fruit. Spice.” She dipped her head again, and his mind went to filthy places watching it bob beside him. “Mmm. Fresh herbs. Kirsch. Oak. Mmm,” she sighed. “Heaven.”
And, oh fuck, even the hardest of hard denim wasn’t going to be able to combat the rush of blood that swelled his cock, pumping it longer and harder in his jeans with every word she whispered.
Cameron thought he was worldly. He thought he knew what sexy was. Five seconds ago, he would have answered it was a naked woman, spread eagle and willing on his bed, her skin flushed, her pupils dilated, her pussy hot and tight, ready to suck him forward and beg him to finish inside. But he’d known fuckall about sexy until Right. This. Minute. Because Margaret Story—perched on the edge of her couch in a sweater dress that covered most of her body, her doe eyes closed, her pillowed lips making love to a glass of wine—had just officially blown Cameron’s mind.
Whoever he’d always thought she was? He was wrong. She wasn’t some sheltered librarian who needed him to come along and unleash her wild side. She wasn’t some helpless field mouse whom he’d swoop down on and catch in his teeth. Though she was self-contained, she was also passionate. She was sensuous and sexy as fuck without even trying, without even knowing, just because she was sitting there breathing, smelling like lilacs, and telling him what made a good wine great.