Page 53 of Driving Him Wild

Again, he smiled. My heart tripped foolishly.

‘It’s right through there.’

I left him to tug on his boxers and headed for the pantry. The room was about eight feet deep, with shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, and packed with enough food and supplies to last a good few weeks. Even months.

How long had he been planning on staying here? What had Stephanie done to make him retreat from

the world?

Questions lingered while I clocked the types of food Jensen liked. I was reaching out for a packet

when he materialised in the doorway.

I couldn’t help myself—I gaped at his delicious body. Watched him watch me as I adored him with

my eyes, his cock thickening behind the stretchy fabric of his boxers. When my gaze returned to his face, his eyes were dark, gleaming in a way I’d learned signalled his arousal.

‘I make a mean chicken fettuccine. Will that work for you?’ he said, his voice a husky rasp.

‘Good to know. The question is can you make a mean chicken fettuccine...naked?’ I countered.

He delivered another one of those insanely sexy smiles, right before he yanked his boxers down his

thick legs and kicked them away. I suppressed a gasp, my heart racing as he prowled towards me.

‘Whatever my mistress wants, my mistress gets.’

He plucked the packet from my nerveless fingers, calmly collected the rest of the ingredients and

left the pantry. I followed, worried that I was seriously in danger of becoming addicted to Jensen

Scott.

It became clear very quickly that he was a maestro in the kitchen. He diced vegetables and smashed

garlic with shameless aplomb. I wasn’t even annoyed that I was reduced to simply fetching and

carrying, the joy of watching him enough to dissipate my disgruntlement.

‘Like a glass of wine?’

I hadn’t spotted any wine when I fetched groceries from the fridge. He wasn’t storing it outside the cabin, was he? ‘Not if I have to venture out in that storm to get it, no.’

He laughed. ‘There’s a cooler in the pantry. I can’t promise the vintage will meet your high

expectations, but it’s perfectly drinkable.’

My spirits plummeted, that stain ofspoilt little rich girlcooling the atmosphere. I sensed his gaze on me as I went to the pantry. I’d missed it the first time round, probably distracted by a near-naked Jensen, but there it was in the back, a slimline cooler filled with a dozen bottles of white, and a wooden shelf next to it, holding bottles of red. I grabbed a white without reading the label, irritation warring with hurt as I returned to the kitchen.

He was leaning against the centre aisle, naked as the day he was born with his cock at half-mast.

‘Look, I didn’t mean—’

I stopped him with the dismissive wave of my hand. ‘If you’re going to throw another apology at

me, don’t bother. I know I come with a few unsavoury labels. It’s not your fault if you can’t help but go with the evidence bandied about.’

‘You’re upset, so I’m guessing they’re not just meaningless labels?’ he pressed.

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