Page 95 of Prelude To You

“I saw dinner rolls. I’ll make us sandwiches with the roast beef and combine it with whatever else there is. It’ll be fun, like a bed picnic.”

A hint of curiosity moored into his features. “A bed picnic…”

“You’ve never had one before?”

He leaned over and wrapped his hand around the nape of my neck. “No, I haven’t. “His tongue flickered over the hollow in my throat, his lips moving up my chin before he whispered into my mouth. “Seems I have a lot of firsts with you, my sweet. A bed picnic being one of them.”

“That food cart is the overbed type,” I said. “So we’re good to keep the party right here on this amazing bed, between the sheets and on top of them.”

Roman threw his head back as he laughed. A thick black lock of hair fell across his forehead, and I had this irresistible urge to climb into his lap and brush it away before making it clear I was all his again for the taking.

But since my sexual gratification relied solely on his magnificent cock and equally amazing tongue to take me to heaven and back, food was essential to sustain his strength.

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable and I’ll get the food,” I said, and slipped off the bed.

His gaze wandered feverishly over my body. “My turn to watch,” he said.

I happily provided a little entertainment, doing a combination of ballet steps on my way to the door, ending in a little bow to my one-man audience.

When our eyes locked, his desirous look made my toes curl with pleasure. And with that the bone in one of my little toes cracked, the sound distinct and unmistakable.

Roman chuckled. “Did you just crack a toe, my sweet?”

“I did,” I replied. “Many years of ballet, enough said.”

“And if that is not the most adorable sound I’ve ever heard. My perfect honey badger’s own little flaw.”

If you hadto look at us, sitting on that bed with the overbed table between us, drinking champagne and me making sandwiches from dinner rolls and cold roast beef, you’d think we were just two lovers indulging a romantic tryst.

You wouldn’t know how every moment counted, how every ticking second was time stolen, and how I still wished Roman would do something dastardly that cured me of him forever. So I could walk away from this unscathed, with my heart intact, free from the inevitable pain that would eventually follow.

Instead he crawled deeper and deeper under my skin until there was no way to stop him from bleeding into my veins.

Roman was leaning with his back against the headboard. I sat opposite him, my legs draped over his. He marveled at the sandwiches, as if this was the first time he’d tasted food. “These are the most delicious sandwiches, and I’m not kidding,” he said.

“The magic of putting the right ingredients together. I’m big on sweet and salt with a tinge of spice. Goes perfectly with the roast beef. It’s actually very simple. But you of all people must have your choice of world-class cuisine.”

Roman shrugged. “I rarely taste my food. It’s to fuel me not to fawn over.”

An incredulous laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside me. “If this is another attempt to make me feel sorry for you, I have news for you.”

He smiled. “No sympathy required. But from now on I’ll make an effort to appreciate food more. All due to your influence.”

“And to think you haven’t even tasted the food I cook from scratch.”

The words were suspended in the air while Roman watched me, his talking vein suddenly throbbing. It seemed he was on the verge of saying something, and had to force himself to bite back the words.

I desperately wanted to relieve him of the burden those words put on him. “Forget I said that. Obviously you will not be tasting my food.”

He took his time to elegantly wipe his mouth with a napkin. As he carefully chose the right words. “There’s nothing I’d like more than taste your food, Isabel. I want you to know that.”

I tipped back the glass of champagne, draining it, hoping for the ache scraping around inside my chest to subside. The silence was punctuated by Roman filling my glass again, looking at me with something on his mind. Something he had no idea how to express.

Maybe he wanted to make a promise he might not be able to keep. Resignation steeped in his blue eyes as reality returned. “We should have some dessert,” he said eventually, and lifted thesmall dome off the dessert plate. “And since you’re the pastry chef, I’d be curious what you think of the French pastries here.”

I cringed at the abomination presented as French pastries on that plate.

“I really couldn’t eat another crumb, thank you, but why don’t you go ahead,” I said as pleasantly as possible.

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