Unwrapped (22 page)

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To make something to eat.”

“You've got to be kiddin'.” He leaned on his elbows and watched in disbelief as she slipped into a pair of leggings and a sweater. “In case you haven't noticed, Jac, I wasn't exactly finished.”

Oh, she had noticed. And she was having an extremely hard time keeping her eyes off his flexed man muscle. “I think my Granny Lou would call that ‘tit for tat.'”

He groaned and fell back on the bed. “You're a coldhearted woman, Jacqueline McPherson.”

Jac didn't know what made her smile. Her married name or his pure frustration. Either way she discovered that Patrick might not be her dream man, but she liked him. Liked him enough that she couldn't let him go completely unsatisfied.

“Come on.” She tossed his underwear at him. “I'll make you an omelet.”

P
atrick liked to watch Jacqueline cook. She moved around the kitchen with an efficiency and competency that he wished more of his crew had. It seemed that she had made the kitchen her own and knew where things were better than he did. Not that he had done much cooking—or shopping, for that matter. As she pulled items from the cupboards and refrigerator, he was amazed by how well stocked the kitchen was. Stocked with his favorite ale and all kinds of condiments and ingredients for making home-cooked meals. For the first time he realized the effort she'd put into cooking for him. She hadn't just thrown dinner together every night. It had taken planning, grocery shopping, and preparing. And she was right. He'd just shoveled in the food without one thank-you. Or one orgasm.

Which was exactly why he hadn't complained too much when she'd left him hard and wanting more. He deserved to go without an orgasm. He watched as Jacqueline leaned over to get a pan out of the oven drawer and took in the sweet curve of her shapely butt in the tight material of her leggings. At least he was willing to go without an orgasm until after dinner.

She glanced over her shoulder and caught him looking. “See something you like?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He smiled, then said something he should've said days ago. “Thank you. I haven't eaten so well since I left my parents' house.”

He expected her to gloat a little. Instead she looked surprised and a little embarrassed. “You're welcome.”

“So how did you learn to cook?”

“From trial and error.” She set the skillet on the stove and drizzled some olive oil in, then grabbed a bell pepper from the bowl on the counter and placed it on a cutting board. “It was either that or eat Bailey's cooking. And believe me, Bailey does a lot of things well, but cooking isn't one of them.”

“So I take it that your wealthy aunt didn't have a chef?”

Jacqueline pulled a knife from the drawer and proceeded to chop the pepper with a dexterity and skill that surprised him. “No, Aunt Frances had a chef. But I learned how to cook before I got to my aunt's. Although once there, Chef Pete took me under his wing and furthered my culinary education. He tried to teach me gourmet cooking, but it didn't stick. Soufflés and rich sauces couldn't beat out pigs in a blanket.”

He laughed. “I'm glad. I'm not much of a soufflé man.”

She glanced over and smiled. “Why doesn't that surprise me?”

“Okay, I admit it. I'm a comfort-food kind of guy. But what I can't figure out is how a snooty rich girl became a comfort-food cook.”

She put the pepper in the pan and started slicing the onion. “My Granny Lou knew how much I loved to cook and got me a subscription to
Taste of Home
magazine for my seventh birthday.”

“Seven? You started cooking when you were seven? Where were your mother and father?”

She stopped cutting and hesitated for a moment before answering. “My father left before I was born, and my mama was gone most of the time. So I cooked for Bailey and me.” She went back to slicing, leaving Patrick floundering.

Her words painted a much different picture from the one Matthew's research had painted, and Patrick had to wonder what picture was the most accurate. “So I take it that your mother wasn't as wealthy as your aunt,” he said.

Jacqueline laughed. “You could say that.”

He waited for her to put the onions in the pan before he asked, “What happened? Why did you have to go live with your aunt?”

“My mother died.” She said the words as a matter of fact—like she was discussing the weather. “She went out for a motorcycle ride and never came back.” She shrugged as she stirred the vegetables in the skillet as if it were no big deal, which stunned Patrick.

He'd never been a mama's boy like Matthew, but he didn't know what he'd do without her. Probably cry like a baby. But Jacqueline didn't shed a tear, not even from the onions. He should be glad. Tears made him feel awkward and uncomfortable. But for some reason, the lack of emotion made him feel just as awkward and uncomfortable. He had the urge to hug her. To pull her into his arms and tell her that everything would be okay. Instead he got up and moved around the counter.

“So what can I do to help?”

She shot him a surprised look. “You cook?”

“No, I eat. But I figure I can be your sous chef if you tell me what to do.”

A devious expression entered her eyes. “You mean I get to order around the boss?” When he only lifted an eyebrow, she laughed and handed him a box of mushrooms. “Clean these.”

“With soap?”

She took them back. “On second thought, why don't you just watch?”

He leaned back on the counter and crossed his arms. “I'm going to assume that soap is out as far as mushrooms are concerned.”

The smirk on her face turned into a giggle. “As far as any food is concerned.”

“Fine, then I'll do the dishes.”

She brightened. “Now that's a job I'll gladly give you.”

An hour later Patrick was finishing up drying the pots and pans while Jacqueline sat on the barstool and watched.

“What do you want to do tonight?” she asked. “I could pop some popcorn, and we could watch a movie. Although without a couch, we'll have to sit at the dining room table.”

Patrick didn't want to watch a movie on a couch or at the table. He wanted to sink deep inside his wife's hot body. But he couldn't say that without sounding like the Neanderthal she thought he was. And with the orgasm score so unbalanced, sex was now in her ballpark. He just had to figure out how to start the game.

He hooked the towel on the handle of the oven. “We could watch television in the bedroom.”

She glanced at the clock. “It's too early to go to bed.” She slid off the barstool. “How about a game?” While he tried to figure out a game that would get them into bed, she walked into the living room and chose a pool cue from the rack. Not just any cue. But Patrick's cue. One that had been perfectly balanced for his hands.

Hurrying over, he took another pool cue from the rack. “Here.” He held it out to her. “Why don't you use this one?”

Her hands tightened on his stick as she sent him a placid smile. “This one is fine.”

Since he couldn't very well jerk it away from her, he kept the one he had and rested it against the table while he racked up the balls. “So we'll start with something easy.” He briefly ran through the basics of the game of eight ball. She listened intently before walking to the end of the table and picking up the white cue ball.

“So I just hit this ball into that triangle of colored balls?” Before he could even nod, she placed the ball on the center spot and took aim. If her perfect form hadn't been a dead giveaway, her expert pool stroke would have been. In one fluid motion, she drew back the cue stick and thrust it forward, sending the cue ball racing toward the racked balls. It hit with a crack and careening colors. Three balls found a pocket. Two solids and a stripe.

With a wide-eyed look, she chalked the tip of her stick. “Something like that?”

Patrick should've been pissed that she'd lied about playing pool. Instead he had to bite back a smile. Jacqueline might have some major personality flaws, but if she played pool as well as she cooked and made love, he figured he could overlook them.

Without waiting for a reply, she moved to the other side of the table and took aim at the solid purple ball. It rocketed into the side pocket with a sturdy thump. When she looked up, she was smiling. Not a practiced smile, but a real one that made her blue eyes twinkle and a cheek dimple. “Beginner's luck.”

“You don't say.” It was hard to keep the smile off his face. “Well, then I guess we shouldn't make any bets. I wouldn't want to take advantage of a beginner.”

She straightened and re-chalked. “Oh, but I love bets. It always makes things more interesting.”

He shrugged. “Well, if you're sure. What should we bet?”

She thought for a moment before answering. “How about a pool table? If I win, it goes. And if you win, it stays.” When he hesitated she quirked an eyebrow. “Scared you'll lose?”

“Not hardly.” He nodded at the table. “I believe it's still your turn.” He leaned on his cue stick and watched as she came around the table and stood in front of him.

“Excuse me,” she said. He stepped back, and she bent over to take aim. He wasn't sure how it happened. One second he was admiring the curves of her ass in the leggings, and the next he was sliding his hand over one sweet cheek. He felt real bad that it happened right as she was taking the shot. She miscued, and the cue ball hit one of his striped balls into the corner pocket.

“Thanks, babe.” Patrick moved around the table, chalking his stick.

“You did that on purpose,” she fumed.

“What?” He tried to duplicate one of her wide-eyed looks. “I was just removing a little piece of lint, su-u-gar.” He drew out the endearment like she did. “Besides, all's fair in love and pool.” She released a frustrated huff as he bent over and slammed a striped ball into a pocket.

It took his second shot slamming home before Jacqueline gave up her anger and decided to play his game. Before he could bend over for his next shot, she was sitting on the edge of the table and pulling off her leggings.

“Is it hot in here?” She slipped her heels back on and plucked at her sweater, lifting it high enough for him to see her lacy panties.

“Not hot enough,” he replied as his gaze ran up her bare legs. “At least not yet.” He gave her a sly smile before leaning over and slamming another ball home. Before he could set up his next shot, she had moved around the table, her finger sliding along the smooth wooden edge.

“Do you feel warm?” she said in a husky voice. “Because I wouldn't want something like…heat distracting you from your game.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't.” He bent over, but just as he pulled the cue back, her hand curved around his butt cheek, sending a shaft of heat streaking to his crotch. He completely missed the cue ball. When he glanced over his shoulder, she shrugged.

“Lint.”

Before he could straighten, she had grabbed her pool cue and was lining up for a shot. The solid ball hit the other balls in the pocket with a crack. But Patrick swore that would be her last good shot. Not only because he wasn't about to get rid of his pool table, but also because just the stroke of her hand had him as hard as the pool balls and he wanted to move on to another game.

“Good shot, Jac.” He stepped directly behind her, pinning her between his hips and the table. “But I think your stroke was a little unsteady. Here,” he settled his hands on her hips, “let me give you a few tips.” He brushed his hard-on against her ass as he leaned over and whispered in her ear. “The key is a smooth, steady stroke.” His fingers curled around the front of her bare thighs as he rubbed against her. “Not too hard and not too soft. That way, the ball won't skirt the pocket, but go inside. Deep. Deep inside.” He slid a finger beneath the edge of her lace panties, briefly enjoying her wet heat before he released her and stepped back.

“Go ahead, honey. What are you waiting for?”

She took the shot, and a solid ball rolled into the pocket. Fortunately, so did the cue ball.

“That's tough luck.” Patrick quickly retrieved both balls and took aim. Another striped ball disappeared into the pocket just as her hand settled over the bulge in his jeans.

“Nice one.” She traced a finger over the fly. “But I think you have an advantage.”

“And what would that be?” His voice was thick with desire.

“Your stick. I think it's straighter then mine.” She unbuttoned his jeans and slid down the zipper. “Shall we see?” He couldn't help but moan when she released his cock to her hand. “See, I was right. It is straighter.” She stroked down the length from tip to base. It took enormous willpower to keep from succumbing to Jacqueline's cool fist. But Patrick had always been competitive. Competitive enough to remove her hands and go in for the win. With single-minded determination and his manhood prominently displayed, he made short work of the last couple of striped balls on the table before calling the pocket for the eight ball and driving it home.

It hadn't even hit the bottom before he tossed the cue stick on the table and advanced toward her. He picked her up and set her on the table, spreading her legs and stepping in between. “I win.”

Her gaze met his, and he was relieved to see as much heat in her eyes as he felt swirling inside of him. “You cheated.”

“I have been known to do that when I want to win something badly.”

She leaned back on her hands, displaying the pretty pink panties that looked more than a little damp. “The pool table?”

“Fuck the pool table.” He moved her panties to the side and slipped deep inside her with one hard thrust, the tight, warm walls of her body enveloping him. “Jesus, Jac.” He moaned out the words. “You're so hot, baby. So…wet.” He slowly pulled out before thrusting back in.

He kept the pace slow and steady while he gained control of his desire. Wanting to make sure it felt as good to her as it did to him, he pulled her closer to the edge of the table, curving his fingers over her thighs with one thumb over her clitoris. Her head lolled back, and her eyes closed as she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deep. He moaned and moved faster—harder—all the while strumming her with his thumb. He didn't know how much more he could take when her hips lifted off the table and she moaned out her orgasm. With a grunt and an awkward jerk, he followed, thrusting deep inside her as he found release.

She fell back on the table. He slumped over her, resting most of his weight on his forearms and his cheek against the soft curves of her breasts. She ran her fingers through his hair, and he suddenly felt extremely content. After a moment she spoke.