Page 10 of Matched

“You know what else helps?”

He has that look in his eyes—the mischievous, teasing one. But I can give as well as I can take. So, I lower my voice to something in the neighborhood between sultry and breathy. Tracing his ear with my finger probably isn’t fair since I have no intention of backing any of it up, but he’d played with my fire one time too many. “Why don’t you tell me?”

He gulps and the sound is as satisfying as it is loud.

“Warm milk.” His voice comes out raspy and deep, like he’s choking on a ball of sand.

For the first time since he entered my home, I’m not all off-balance from his presence. I have the upper hand for a change, and it’s damn good. I trail my finger to his throat and scrape my nail lightly down to his collarbone. “You drank all the milk.” My husky, semi-pouty voice has managed to make the pulse point in his neck kick into gear and I’m proud. I could be a vixen as much as the next girl. It’s only fair, after he paraded around my house half-naked.

He clears his throat and in the blink of an eye, he’s found his control again. The grin that stretches lazily across his face makes my traitorous pulse skip. I try to pull my hand away, but he’s faster and grabs it to press a soft kiss against the pad of my index finger. Talk about heartbeats and shooting into the unknown.

“I have some other ideas we could explore.” He moves on to kiss each of my fingertips. My, oh my, his lips are soft. And the way they brush so sweetly against my skin? Delicious.

When he’s almost done, I snap out of the haze and yank my hand back. “If we keep having this conversation and I have to keep shooting you down, I’m afraid your self-confidence will suffer. Then it’s all shrink visits and psychotropic medication.”

I stand because one more inhale of his cologne and I’m going to lose my shit... and by lose my shit, I mean melt into a puddle at his overconfident, annoying feet. Which is absurd. The day I can’t resist a player like Tony is the day the world ends. No, this is less about him and more about me, and my sex drive reminding me that it’s been too long. That must be what’s happening here. My new husband might be hot, but he’s far too obvious and immature for my taste.

I glance down into his smoldering brown eyes, and a bolt of electricity runs along my spine right to my aching sex. Who am I trying to kid? My body has other ideas. Which, when I think about it, is great! Because it’s not like I have to resist him forever. No, I just need to keep my hands off him long enough for us to form some kind of bond that’s not rooted in sexy times. He’s making that a challenge though, because now not only do I have a mental picture of him in my room, but also one of him sprawled on my bed wearing his come-get-me grin, and it’s an image complete with smell-o-vision. Maybe Mami knows a cleaning ritual or a special prayer I can say to clear my head of the clutter. And yeah. My new plan is to think of him as brain clutter for the foreseeable future.

“Get out.” I wave my arm in a sweep toward the open doorway. “I have to...” I can’t think of a lie quick enough and he smirks, like he’s filling in my silence with the dirtiest conclusion ever. Insufferable. Ridiculous. Jerk. How am I supposed to form a nonphysical connection with this idiot? “I have to get ready for work.”

Because of my new marriage, I’ve been given the week off, and if I show up at the restaurant, the rumor mill will wind itself into God only knows what. But it’ll involve me and I’m not into being the talk of the town. I don’t even like being the talk of the house. But neither do I want to fall straight into bed with Tony and risk ruining any chance of making our union work for the long haul.

I push him out and slam the door before he can say another word. I walk over to my bed and fall onto the mattress where the scent of him—spice and citrus—mingles with the linen scent of my blanket to form the most intoxicating aroma. I want to bury my face in the material and inhale until it’s all gone, and as I turn my head into the comforter, the door pops open and I jerk my head to find Tony and his smug smirk pointed at me. “I’m going out for milk. You need anything?”

God, yes. I need some common sense, a few unencumbered-by-Anthony-Martinez brain cells, and a big dose of whatever they sold that would form an impenetrable resistance to him. “I’m good. Thanks.”

He winks again and shuts the door, whistling the first few bars of “I’m in the Mood for Love”—an oldie from way, way back I would have never guessed he’d ever heard. And a few minutes later while I shower, I belt out the first verse and the chorus before I realize what I’m doing and switch to an old Bon Jovi tune that seems to sum up the current state of my life. If anyone’s living on a prayer, it’s me.

The shower, with its multi-head spray jets that pulse and massage, eases the tension in my back and shoulders, but the rest of me is coiled like the spring in a jack-in-the-box. Tony being only be a few feet down the hallway from now on is going to be more temptation than I’d imagined.

If only the jackass didn’t speak, maybe we’d get somewhere. Maybe I could get one of those no-bark collars for dogs modified into a no-talk collar.

I grab the towel and wrap it around my body before stepping onto the bathmat. After towel drying my hair a bit, I step into my room and dance like no one’s watching while heading to the closet.

Tony always looks like he just stepped out of GQ magazine and by God, I won’t be outdone by designer jeans and a Ralph Lauren button down. I know how to turn heads, how to dress for my body, how to accentuate my J.Lo-esque ass and Victoria’s Secret cleavage. A little toss of my hair, one final look in the mirror, and I’m following my nose to the kitchen.

The kitchen is small, a U-shaped bank of cabinets interrupted by a dishwasher at the sink, and a refrigerator across from the stove. But at least when I’m standing at the sink hand-washing dishes, I can look out the window to the backyard and the garden of flowers my mom planted when I moved in. Except right now, Tony stands there with his big hands plunged deep into a bowl of peeled tomatoes.

Red juice squirts onto his shirt as he kneads and massages the fruit. My gaze fixates on the capable, rhythmic motion of his fingers. My legs wobble. Mierda. When did cooking become so erotic? This is unacceptable. I place one hand on my hip and drum the fingernails of the other against the countertop. “Tony, what are you doing?”

He grins and continues squeezing the tomatoes as his gaze wanders from my painted toes up my bare legs to the shorts of my romper, then to my halter top and the soft curls in my hair. “Making sauce for lasagna. Women like guys who can cook.”

“Women do, huh?” To be honest, I’m not offended he’s lumped us all into one category. To him, we probably are all one group of adoring fans. Conquests and notches on his bedpost.

Before I can ask about the ingredients scattered across the counter, he leans closer and sniffs the air. “You smell good too.”

My cheeks heat and I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. “Thanks. I’m, um, going to the auto parts store to pick up some... uh...” I can’t think of a single thing we need. “Motor oil.” Oh, sweet Lord. But I can’t stop now. I’m in too deep. “I need to change... uh...”

He bites his bottom lip as if to keep from laughing. “Your oil?”

Ugh. Of course I’d have to set myself up for one of his lines. And I don’t generally shop at the auto store in three-inch heels and a romper that costs a week’s pay. Plus, I’d just changed the oil in my Wrangler last week. But I’m all in now. “Yep.”

“Don’t you have work?”

“You know, darnedest thing. I forgot I’m off this week. The newlywed-bonus week.” I grimace. Why did I say that?

He looks up at me for a moment, then continues kneading. “Well, don’t be too late. Dinner should be ready in about an hour and a half, tops.”

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