Party of Three (Sunday Night Dinner Club #1 (5 page)

“It is?” She looked at him with dark-green eyes.

“It is,” he confirmed. “Your lips on mine.”

“Okay then.” Her hands found his cheeks and held his head firmly in place as she brought her face slowly towards his and settled her lips on his.

Oh. Yeah.

The second their mouths met, he parted his and touched her lips with his tongue. The kiss hit unforgettable when Chelsea’s mouth opened in response.

The woman rocked his soul. She tasted like an angel and kissed like the devil. Hot and sinful with a healthy pinch of spice and a smoking dash of zing.

Spencer would have brought his hands to her hips to guide her into the same rhythm his pelvis had found, but she needed no assistance. She naturally let her body dance against his, rocking her hips to a similar beat. Only her beat was more sensual. The slide of her clothed pussy over his aching cock made symphonies play in his ears.

And the deeper he kissed her, the more sensual the slide became.

The best part? His hands were at liberty to explore—and he gave them free reign, sliding them up her back, under her T-shirt, appreciating the satiny-smooth skin that stretched over toned flesh.

Good. Felt so good. Almost good enough to keep his hands there. But no man in his right mind would let his palms remain on her back when, with every swing of her hips, the tips of her breasts teased his chest, rasping over the cotton of his shirt.

He sacrificed the silky sensation of her skin against his for a better cause—unhooking her bra so he could run his hands over her unimpeded.

Soon as the band slackened, he filled his palms with her again, this time sliding them around her waist. He assigned every inch he encountered to memory—the goose bumps that rose beneath his touch, the flat curve of her belly, hard ridges of her ribs and the intoxicating swell of her breasts.

He swept his fingers upwards, feathering them over her nipples, which had tightened into taut beads.

Chelsea moaned into his mouth and clenched her thighs tightly around his, momentarily trapping his cock against her mound.

He deliberately scraped his nails over nipples, almost losing his breath as the action made her grind harder.

Spencer cupped her breasts, brushing his thumbs over the tight beads, timing the caresses with the strokes of their tongues. Chelsea adjusted the rhythm of her rocking accordingly, so they danced together, mouths and bodies in perfect harmony.

This was the single hottest kiss Spencer had ever experienced fully clothed. The only way it could be improved was if they were both naked—with him sheathed inside her.

Stripping was not an option. Neither, unfortunately, was fucking her senseless. Not in a kitchen that catered to the general public.

But the enforced chastity only increased the carnality of the moment. Besides, Spencer’s hands were full of Chelsea’s breasts. Which made him the single luckiest man on earth.

And then it occurred to Spencer that removing Chelsea’s shirt and bra altogether would in no way affect the pristine condition of the kitchen. Besides, if the kiss was to be as memorable for her as it already was for him, he had to up the ante.

She groaned in disapproval when he tore his mouth from hers, then a shudder shook through her as he grasped the hem of her shirt and the bottom of her bra in both hands and dispensed of them swiftly.

Much as he needed to touch her again, kiss her, taste her, he needed to see her more. He held her waist, angling her upper body so he could sweep his gaze over her now exposed torso. And what he saw took his breath.

Her breasts were round and firm, her nipples standing to attention. They trembled as another shudder racked her body.

“Christ, woman,” he murmured, his tongue so thick he could hardly form words. “You are so damn beautiful.”

Her hands tangled in his hair. “You are too, Spencer.”

“I’ve waited a long time to taste you, sweetheart.” He couldn’t wait any longer. Swooping in, he caught the tip of her breast between his lips and drew his tongue over the nipple.

Chelsea’s back arched. “Oh, God! Adrenaline rush.”

The contact made him dizzy. He drew her nipple into his mouth and suckled.

A vibration rippled through her chest, kind of like the purr of a kitten.

“Spencer…wait… Need to talk…”

Sure, they could talk. Later. When he’d gorged on his bounty.

“Have to tell…tell you…something.”

He settled in for his feast, not giving a second thought to making conversation at a time like this. He’d waited a year to kiss her. He wasn’t wasting another second.

“Spencer—” She tugged at his hair, the sting acting more like an erotic stimulant than the intended deterrent.

As he molded one hand to her right breast, he scraped his teeth over her other, and Chelsea seemed to forget her need to talk.

He spent a very long time sampling every inch of her beautiful breasts, nibbling, licking, kissing and suckling to his heart’s content. And man, was his heart content. Especially when Chelsea’s hips found that exquisite, excruciating rhythm again, dragging her pussy over his shaft, up and down, around and around, pressing against him, freeing him and rocking all over again.

The swaying threatened to tip the stool over, forcing Spencer to hook one foot through the leg and set the other firmly on the ground to hold the seat in place. It deterred the wanton woman on his lap not at all. Even the pain he knew he inflicted as he bit down on her nipple didn’t stop her. If anything, it inspired her, urging her on to a faster beat.

As heat pooled in his groin, threatening his self-control, Chelsea’s rhythm faltered and then changed. The erotic sway became more of a desperate grind and her nipple swelled beneath his lips.

“Spencer…” His name was a hoarse whisper, her breath uneven and shallow. She grasped his shoulders, anchoring herself to him while her hips gyrated at a wild pace.

He clasped her ass with his free hand, urging her on, increasing her pace, pushing her harder against his rigid dick. Her breasts wobbled, forcing him to increase his suction or lose his hold.

“I…I’m going…to…” Her words dissolved into a breathy shudder. “Oh, God…going to come.”

Spencer swore his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“S-Spencer.” She arched her back, driving her nipple farther into his greedy mouth.

Jesus, he wished he held her naked ass, wished her could feel the firm, rounded flesh in his palm, squeeze it, mold it, press her even closer.

He bucked his hips, feeding her frantic dance. And then he pinched her nipple, squeezing it between his thumb and finger at the same time he released her other breast to run his tongue over the tip.

“Oh, God. Spencer!”

Chelsea’s body ground to a halt and convulsions shook through her. Forcing himself to keep up the assault on his breasts, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for control. The impulse to give himself over to Chelsea’s pleasure and let rip with his own orgasm was close to overpowering. He held every muscle in his body rigid and prayed to God he didn’t embarrass himself in front of the sexiest woman in the universe.

Chelsea stumbled across the kitchen, her legs barely holding her up. Seconds before she scalded the heck out of her hands, she remembered to don a pair of oven mitts and removed the cooked-to-perfection roast lamb from the oven.

At least she hoped it was cooked to perfection. Usually, she relied on her eyes and nose to guide her instinct, but her senses and brain were fried, and she could not begin to depend on them to feed her correct information.

Holy smoke.

She’d had a mind-blowing orgasm on Spencer’s lap—without even meaning too.

Okay, yes, she’d had every intention of flirting with the guy. And of kissing him and finally discovering how his mouth tasted. But an orgasm? In the restaurant’s kitchen?

Nuh-uh. That hadn’t been part of her plan.

Yet every inch of her tingled, and her clit still pulsed in post-orgasmic bliss, reminding her of the old cliché about the best-laid plans.

Shit. She needed to speak to Spencer. Had to tell him something. But her head refused to part with the details that needed sharing. They were there, somewhere, she just couldn’t access or remember them now.

This was all Levi’s fault. And Spencer’s. The two of them had her so worked up she’d lost all touch with reality. First, Levi had kissed her in the park—so thoroughly, that her heart had raced faster than five laps around the track would ever have inspired. Then Spencer had kissed her on the stool.

On a stool, for God’s sake.

Who came while sitting on a stool—clothed?

She did, apparently.

Given the opportunity, she’d likely have come in the park this morning too, while backed against a tree with hundreds of people walking past. Fortunately, Levi had possessed the fortitude she so obviously lacked. He hadn’t thrust against her more than that once.

Levi.
Yep, there was something she need to tell Spencer about Levi. But God knew what it was. Her brain was still climax-induced mush.

She looked over at Spencer and scrunched her nose in confusion. His eyes were closed, his hands were clenched into fists and he was silently mouthing…something.

Fascinated, she stared at him. Even with his face contorted in agony, the man was gorgeous. “What are you doing there, accountant man?”

He didn’t open his eyes. “Reciting every revision made to the tax laws in Australia over the last twenty-five years.”

“Ah, right.” She nodded as if that made absolute sense. “Um…why?”

“Because if I let my mind dwell on what it wants to dwell on, I’m going to throw you over that bench top and fuck you until next week.”

Her heart skipped a very unsteady beat.

“Tax and superannuation laws amendment, increased concessional contributions cap and other measures bill. Introduced and read first, May 2013.”

Huh?
“I have no idea what you said there.”

He shook his head. “Neither do I, but if it keeps the image of you coming apart in my arms out of my head for even a second, I’m okay with that.”

Her face flamed. “I enjoyed coming apart in your arms.”

Spencer opened one eye to glare at her. “Ever been fucked on a kitchen counter before?” His voice was a menacing growl, and it made the parts pulsing inside her pulse a little harder.

“N-not these counters, no.”

Spencer groaned. “You’re not making this any easier on me.”

She ran her hand along the aluminum counter. “I’d like to try it sometime.”

His fists turned white and tendons stood out in his neck. “Don’t suppose it’ll be too comfortable.”

“I suspect, if it were you fucking me, I wouldn’t notice the discomfit.”

“You’re killing me, Chelsea.”

Making sure to leave a big space between herself and the roasting pan, she bent her waist and stretched her upper body over the counter. “If you fucked me like this, it wouldn’t be the least bit uncomfortable.”

Spencer stood up so quickly the stool clattered backward onto the floor. He stalked across the kitchen.

“Wh-where are you going?”

“Anywhere that won’t get your restaurant shut down should I attempt to show you how uncomfortable an aluminum counter top can be.” And with that, he strode through the door.

Chelsea took enough time to give silent thanks that it was the door leading to her office and not outside before she followed him.

Her office was small at the best of times, but with Spencer pacing its length, it seemed miniscule. His tall, broad body more than filled it. When he’d first arrived, he’d removed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves to reveal strong, tanned forearms lightly dusted with dark hairs.

Now his once-neat pale-blue button-up shirt had come untucked, his hair stood up at crazy angles and his pants were pulled tight around a huge bulge—all consequences of her unfettered actions. He looked…hot. Ridiculously hot. And he made her hot. Crazy, stupid hot, all over.

“Spencer—”

He paused mid-stride to look at her. His eyes blazed and a muscle ticked in his cheek. “Ever been fucked in your office before, Chelsea?”

“N-not this office. No.” She deliberately repeated her words from minutes ago.

The breath left his mouth in a hiss.

“But I’d like to try it sometime.”

“You have a choice.” His voice was measured, his words precise. “One of two. Either turn around and walk out the room, now, while I’m still willing to let you go…”

Yeah, that was not an option. “Or?”

“Or—” the muscle ticked away in his cheek, “—turn around, put your hands on the wall and don’t move at all.” His glaze flicked over her shoulder, presumably to the wall. “It’s no countertop, but it’ll do.”

Moist heat flooded her pussy. “Those are my only two choices?”

“For now? Yes.”

“Okay then.” She turned around and waited a second, knowing her decision but letting him sweat on it for a second or two.

Slowly and deliberately, Chelsea walked to the wall, raised her hands and pressed them against it, shoulder height.

Spencer swore. The words were soft and low and made her shiver.

Footsteps sounded behind her and warm air filtered through her hair seconds before he snuck hot hands around her waist, branding her. It was only then she realized she’d neglected to put her shirt and bra back on. She’d spent this entire time talking to him topless.

“Kick off your shoes,” he instructed.

They were gone in a heartbeat. She looked over her shoulder, but Spencer didn’t notice. His gaze was fixed on her, on the lower parts of her body. “What are you going to do to me?” Breathlessness made talking close to impossible.

He slid his hands to her belly. “I’m about to remove your jeans.” His voice was a low, assertive rasp and his breath tickled over her back. “And you are going to stand there and let me do it. Got it?”

“G-got it.” Goose bumps ran down the length of her spine.

He made short work of her button and zip, and then his fingers were on the waist of her jeans, hooking her panties and pushing both knickers and pants over her hips and down her legs. Slowly and sensually. God, so slowly. He caressed her thighs and calves the whole way down. The goosies extended wherever he touched.