Page 10 of No Strings Christmas

‘So, no missionary, huh?’ I ask as I stroll into the living area ten minutes later, quickly showered and bundled up in one of the hotel robes.

He’s set oysters, strawberries and chocolates out on the low-lying coffee table in the orangery area of the living room. I pad across to him, curling my legs beneath me as I sit on the sofa.

He shakes his head, eyes on me.

‘What’s that about?’

He lifts those broad shoulders again then reaches for a plate and arranges three oysters on it along with a wedge of lemon, then passes it to me. It’s so like someone like him to just presume I’d like oysters when everyone knows they’re an acquired taste.

‘Just personal preference.’ But the way he says it makes me think he’s hiding something. I don’t push him for more information—what’s the point?

Instead, I smile, lifting an oyster to my lips and swallowing it, the flavour perfect—salty like the ocean.

He’s watching me, and little blades of heat dance across my skin.

‘So this is your thing?’ I gesture to the oysters and champagne.

He comes to sit beside me, and in these close confines I feel how broad his frame is, how dwarfed I am by his physicality. Even that is a turn-on.

‘What’s “this”?’

‘This sophisticated seduction.’

‘I like oysters.’ He lifts his shoulders. ‘I’ve got to tell you, I don’t have a “thing”.’

‘No?’

‘I’m sorry if that disappoints you—if you think I’m some guy who’s got some hard and fast routine or whatever—but that’s not how I roll.’

‘So how do you roll?’ I push, reaching for the champagne bottle and lifting it to my lips, taking a couple of sips then handing it over to him.

‘Jesus. I don’t know, Jessica. However I feel like it.’ He laughs, shakes his head a little. ‘I will say I don’t usually drink champagne from the bottle.’

I match his laugh. ‘Hmm, that’s new for me too.’ I reach for the bottle, take a sip. ‘I like it.’

He brushes a finger across my lips. ‘Good.’ His posture is relaxed, like a man who’s had fantastic sex and is about to feast on his bodyweight in oysters and berries.

‘So what was your beef tonight?’

‘My beef? That’s an interesting way to describe yourself.’

His laugh is baritone, immensely satisfying.

‘You were clearly shitty when you got to the bar.’

My heart stammers. ‘Well, I’m not now.’

He lifts his shoulders. ‘I aim to please.’ I watch as he reaches for an oyster, taking it straight from the silver platter and bringing it to his lips. When he’s finished, he discards the shell back on the tray then homes his gaze on my face. ‘Something with work?’

I shake my head. ‘My work is the one thing in my life I feel almost one hundred per cent in control of.’

A small frown flickers across his brow, as if he doesn’t believe me, or doesn’t agree with me. Perhaps he’s of the same mindset as me—that is, what’s the point in asking uber-personal questions when this is just a one-night thing?—because he doesn’t pursue it.

‘So what, then?’

‘Why are you so sure I was shitty?’ That’s not really a word in my vernacular but saying it, tasting it in my mouth, feels like him in a way that’s pleasant and difficult to describe.

His face cracks into a sardonic smile. ‘Your body language.’

---