My gaze rose to his, and he said, almost lazily, "And that would be?"
"We could continue our discussion."
He laughed softly and let his hand trail from the back of my neck and down my arm until his hand wrapped around mine. With one quick and gentle tug, I found myself pressed against the hardness of his body and then trapped in the prison of his arms. Not that I was complaining—not when every inch of me tingled with awareness of his closeness. And of the rampant readiness pressed so neatly against my stomach. Even through jeans, he was pretty damn impressive.
"And what, exactly, were we talking about?" he murmured, dropping a kiss on my forehead, then trailing them down either side of my face.
My breathing just about stopped when his mouth brushed mine again, but he didn't linger, his butterfly kisses moving back up again.
"I wanted to know about the Aedh," I somehow managed to say. "I wanted to know if perhaps you knew my father."
"It is always possible," he said, his gaze meeting mine as he pulled back a little. My skin mourned the loss of his lips, but the heated, sexual look in his eyes suggested it wouldn't be mourning for long. "Although as I said, we tend to be singular rather than a community."
"Except for the priests."
"Except for the priests," he agreed, then his lips came down on mine again and, for the longest time, there was no talking, no thinking, just enjoyment of this man and the incredible electricity of his kiss.
"Let's resume this conversation upstairs," he murmured eventually.
"What about the stew?" I glanced across to the stove as his fingers entwined mine and he tugged me forward. The jet was on low, so it was doubtful anything would burn. And even if it did, I really couldn't have cared. Right now, my hunger for him was far greater than my need to eat.
"Right now," he said, as he weaved through the kitchen then out into the rear of the dining room, "I couldn't give a damn about the stew."
The door at the back of the restaurant had handprint security. He pressed his free hand against it and, after a moment, the door clicked open. He stepped back and ushered me through, pressing his hand lightly against my spine as we began to climb the stairs side by side. The heat and rawness of him swirled around me, almost overriding the sweetness of jasmine drifting down.
"So what is your father's name?" he asked as he opened the door at the top.
"Hieu." I glanced around the room. It was an open kitchen, dining, and living area, the wall sparsely decorated and the furniture expensive but well used. A large vase of jasmine and roses dominated the dining table.