Page 31 of Dangerous Passion

He nodded. Itwasvery pretty.

No one had ever drummed manners into him. He’d grown up on the streets, fighting his way to the top. No one had ever told him how men are supposed to behave in society, with ladies. His formative years had been spent withwarlords, generals and rebel leaders. Later, he befriended a few alcoholic war journalists and the odd rough CIA operative, none of whom had any manners worth speaking about.

But Drake knew how to observe, how to blend in. So he knew that he was supposed to accompany Grace to her chair, pull it out and wait for her to sit before sitting down himself. He’d seen it done. He knew how it was supposed to go.

But it wasn’t to conform to some abstract society ideal that had him walking her to her chair and pulling it out.

It came utterly naturally, instinctively. From the deepest part of his being. It gave him enormous pleasure to take her to his table, to make sure that she was comfortably seated before taking a seat himself. It felt absolutely right. Nothing to do with manners and everything to do with gut-deep instinct.

His cooks had outdone themselves. Warm and nutritious, he’d asked. Apparently that meant soup. Soup that was … green, he discovered as he filled her bowl.

“I have no idea what this is.” He filled his own bowl and waited until she picked up her spoon and delicately tasted the soup. “I hope it’s good. My cooks seem to know what they’re doing. Usually.”

“It’s delicious,” she said softly. “And just for the record, it’s watercress soup.”

Watercress. Jesus. He knew every gun that had ever been manufactured. Every hold in every martial art. This was beyond him. What the fuck was watercress?

“A herb. It grows wild.” She watched him with a small smile, answering his unspoken question. “Try it. You’ll like it. It’s really very good.”

He did. It was.

They were both hungry and ate their way quickly through the food. Drake knew the food was all good, fantastic even, but he could hardly taste it. He was completely taken up with Grace Larsen. At his table, by his side.

In the past year that he’d taken extraordinary risks just to see her, telling himself he was an idiot, he’d never thought he’d actually ever be sitting beside her, except in the middle of the night, in his dreams.

He was a fast healer, almost preternaturally so. He felt much better already, almost normal. He could feel strength returning minute by minute to his body, he could feel the blood circulating more strongly in his veins. Alas, most of it went straight to his dick.

He’d deliberately put on tight, stiff jeans, hoping it would act as a sort of a chastity belt, but it wasn’t working. Just watching her eat, move, hell—breatheexcited him.

Shit.

He had enormous mental discipline but mind games weren’t working. Not when he had Grace less than a foot from him, his gi gaping slightly over her breasts, showing the dips and shadows of her breasts, her delicate collarbones visible.

He clenched his fist on the table. He wanted, so badly, to reach out and touch her his hand itched. He understood his dick, trying to punch its way through stiff denim. His dick wanted to reach out and touch her, too.

Actually, his dick wantedinher, in the worst way. It was as if he’d never had sex before, it was so intense.

They were making polite conversation, about the food, the tableware, the candlesticks—he could barely keep his mind on what they were saying—and all the time his head was flooded with images of her in his bed.

He wasn’t even fantasizing about foreplay, no, his headhad gone straight to the main course. Fucking. Fucking Grace. Who was—whoa—not more than a foot away from him. Close enough for him to smell her, a delicate fragrance under the sharper smells of the food and the wood from the hearth. Close enough to see how fine-grained her skin was, what a lovely glowing color she had, as if sprinkled with pearl dust.

She favored loose clothing, so all the times he’d seen her at the gallery, he had to guess at what was underneath, but now, dressed in his gi which she’d had to cinch around herself tightly or the whole damned thing would fall off, he could see exactly how she was made.

Perfectly. That’s how she was made.

She’d fit perfectly in his hands, fit perfectly under him. He could see them on his bed, long pale slender legs hugging his hips, arms around his neck, as he pumped inside her. She’d be soft there, too. Wet enough to take him, so that he could slide easily in and out of her. His hands—where the fuck were his hands in this scenario?

Holding that narrow waist, right at the sexy curve before it widened to her delicately round hips? But he also wanted to hold her breasts while fucking her, rasping a thumb across her nipple, feeling it turn hard as he moved inside her. But then he also wanted a hand in that glorious hair, feeling it curl softly over his arm like a female waterfall. But then what hereallywanted was to hold her legs open with his hands, cup her knees and spread them so that he had full access to her cunt, nothing in the way, nothing between them…

Shit, he’d need four pairs of hands. How was that going to work?

Oh God, he was so hard it was painful. He found it next to impossible to banish the images of them on his bed, hardto soft, dark to pale. As he watched her avidly, watching each forkful go into her mouth, his dick envying the zucchini soufflé and gratin potatoes because they were passing those lush lips because that’s where it wanted to be, he could feel an electric tingle in his spine. His balls tightened, his hips were unconsciously moving, wanting to be in her, thrusting.

Oh God, he was seconds from an orgasm, right here, at the dinner table. Not only would it be embarrassing but she wasn’t in any way ready to face the intensity of his sexual desire for her. It would alienate her, when he needed her by his side, in every way there was.

So he called on every ounce of self control he had and walked away. In his head, he pulled his dick out of Grace, got up from the bed and walked away.

One of the hardest things he’d ever done in a hard life.

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