Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,15

this?” she asked, handing him a ten-inch kitchen knife, a cutesy melon baller, and a ripe cantaloupe as big as a small basketball. The tease.

“I prefer peaches to melons,” he teased back.

Her lips thinned, but he caught the surreptitious glance down at her chest. “Peaches?”

Hotrod nodded. She most definitely had a luscious pair of cantaloupes, but size wasn’t everything. “Yes, firm, fragrant, delicious peaches that fit snug inside my hands. Makes me want to rub them all over my face. Can’t do that with melons.”

She blushed, and wasn’t that a beautiful sight? Already a lovely shade of caramel, her cheeks turned rose, then the prettiest russet red. Better yet, like a shy little girl, she ducked her head into her shoulders. “Okay, then. Peaches, I guess.”

He felt the need to expound lest she thought she was in any way inferior, or that he’d meant her breasts weren’t what he preferred. They damned well were.

Stiffening his arm, Hotrod held the melon out to her at eye level. “See this fruit? It’s round and it’s good-sized, but it’s also covered with a tasteless rind that’s as rough as dirt. It has to be washed, halved, then the guts cleaned before you can eat it. If you want to get fancy, the fruit has to be cut from the rind, then sliced and diced or balled. By the time a guy gets to pop one tasty morsel into his mouth” —he popped his lips— “he’s lost his appetite. But peaches…”

Hotrod let his gaze drop to her succulent, tempting—peaches. Lifting up from the breakfast bar, he set the cantaloupe on the counter where it couldn’t roll. This next demonstration needed to be up close and personal.

Persia’s breath hitched when he rounded the counter and slipped both hands beneath her robe. Gently, he cupped her bare breasts, his thumbs rubbing over her pebbled nipples. “But peaches are something else altogether,” he murmured, his voice gone husky and deep.

The delightful globes resting in his palms were warm and lush. “They don’t need a rind because they were created perfect.” His thumbs tag-teamed her nipples until both were hard and begging for his mouth. “They’re soft and sweet and warm, kissed by the sun and ready to melt in my mouth.”

“Your mouth?” she asked, her voice trembling. Man, her eyes were melted chocolate, so deep and enticingly dark that he wanted to dive in and never be seen again.

He parted her robe and dipped his nose into her warm, fragrant cleavage. “Oh, yeah,” he breathed as he turned his head and drew one succulent nipple between his lips. Hollowing his cheeks, he suckled like a baby pig in heaven. Breast heaven. It didn’t—couldn’t—get any better than this.

Her arms wrapped around his head, trapping him where he wished he could stay. Hotrod closed his eyes. Melons or peaches, he didn’t really care, as long as it got him here. With her. Inside her prickly defenses. Persia was a different kind of woman, hard as nails, yet so damned soft and feminine. He wanted to stay where he was. If only he could.

“Hey,” she murmured, her voice raspy in his ear. “Umm, bacon, anyone?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, suddenly remorseful. Tipping back on his heels and out of her arms, he drew in a deep breath, covered her peaches, and pasted on a lying, happy face. Life was what it was. The longer he stayed and played with this tempting woman, the harder it’d be to walk away from her. As soon as he ate, he had to go. Or he’d never leave.

Time to clean and quarter that cantaloupe.

Breakfast at midnight was uniquely Persia. She whipped up a batch of blueberry pancakes while the bacon sizzled, then set a pint-sized crock of marmalade on the breakfast bar, along with a plate of sliced cheese, cucumbers, and tomatoes. There was no maple syrup, just another crock of rich, creamy butter. And she ate with relish. Which made him smile. It was easier to enjoy a good meal when the woman with you wasn’t dining on salads or yogurt or fussing about calories or her weight. How Persia kept a trim figure, Hotrod didn’t care. She enjoyed his company and that was what mattered.

She’d taken the stool beside him and now waggled a slice of crispy peppered bacon under his nose. “Where are you from?”

“Around,” he replied, keeping it vague as he speared a small stack of pancakes. But then he added, “I was born in Miami, but I keep a post