Page 15 of Naughty Santa

Finally, he turned with a plate of spaghetti and sauce. He stood holding it, just looking at her.

She tipped her head, waiting for him to say something.

“I can’t.”

Paris frowned, confused. “You can’t spank me?”

His eyebrows rose, clearly surprised by her response. Not to mention perplexed.

Oh, right. They hadn’t been talking about that. She’d just been thinking about it.

“Oops. Um, sorry. Tired.” She looked down at the wine bottle and wiggled it. “Maybe tipsy.”

Was that plausible at all?

“Actually, I can spank you,” he said after a moment, the corner of his mouth curling up in a very sexy way that made her stomach flip. “That would be very easy, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Well, then.

That was a fabulous answer. “Give me a few bites of spaghetti and a couple minutes for the carbs to hit my bloodstream, and I’m all in,” she joked, reaching for the plate.

Joe shook his head and let her take the plate. “Wow. Are all the women in California so...out there?”

Moving around the kitchen, looking for a fork, she laughed. “Spanking is so not out there in California. You should see some of the stuff people are into.” Paris opened and slammed shut three drawers before Joe shifted to the side, opened the drawer by his hip, and extracted a fork, handing it over.

With a huge grin, she twirled it in the pile of noodles, twisting several around the tines and taking a big bite.

“I meant the way you’re so open about sex and what you like and what you want and everything,” he said.

Paris looked up, chewing. His eyes were on her mouth, and she instinctively swiped her tongue over her lower lip, wondering if she had sauce there. His pupils dilated. So she did it again.

“Most of the women I hang out with are pretty open about sex and what they like,” she told him. “You can’t expect people to read your mind. If you want something, you have to say it.”

Paris took another bite and studied him as she ate. Seriously, for sauce from a jar, this was really good. Of course, that was probably because she’d never been hungrier in her life. Or because she’d never had a guy dressed in flannel and denim cook for her before. Or maybe it always tasted this good when there was testosterone dripping all over everything.

“Did your Indiana girlfriends not talk about sex?” she asked.

Joe’s eyes crinkled at the edges, his grin not just restricted to his mouth. When Joe smiled, it was evident on his entire face. “They did. But not within the first hour of knowing me.”

She giggled. “They were just better at keeping their thoughts to themselves. I have to admit, that’s not something I’m particularly good at.”

“You’re saying they were thinking about sex within an hour of meeting me?” Joe’s expression was a mix of amusement and confusion, like he couldn’t quite figure her out.

He was leaning against the counter across from her with his hands braced on either side of his hips. The position pulled his shirt across his wide chest and flat abs and kind of put everything below his waist on full display.

Paris took another bite and let her gaze travel down him from head to toe. Slowly. “Hell yeah, they were.”

She took her time bringing her gaze back up to his.

Brawny.

That was the best word for him. He was like a superhot lumberjack or mountain man. Not that she knew a lot about lumberjacks or mountain men. But there was flannel. And a beard. And boots. And big, rough hands. She very much doubted Joe had ever eaten, or even heard of,Matelote de Poissons. Which put him a few points ahead of Victor.

She hatedMatelote de Poissons. Seafood stew. Gag. Even more, she hated that Victor used to make it for her without even asking if she liked it, simply because it was his favorite.

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