Page 17 of Painted in Love

Or maybe it was just their off-the-charts chemistry.

Her breathing didn’t have the rhythm of sleep, so he asked, “Are you hungry?”

Her groan rumbled through his chest. “I’m starving.” She looked at him, her eyes dark and expressive. “I haven’t eaten all day. I was working so late last night, then I slept almost until I went out for coffee.”

“I wonder if they have room service here.”

She grinned. “I happen to know they do. I’m dying for a hamburger. With French fries.” Then she laughed. “I can never eat the whole thing. Will you share with me?”

He was ravenous enough to eat two burgers, but he said, “I can share.”

She scrambled out of bed, naked but not self-conscious about it, her skin the pearly pink of good sex. While she grabbed a menu off the desk, he strode into the bathroom, cleaned up, and was back before she’d finished perusing the menu.

He flopped down on the bed beside her. She hadn’t even pulled up the covers, as if her nakedness didn’t bother her at all. He liked that she wasn’t embarrassed about what they’d done.

And they still had another condom.

It was dark outside, but he didn’t glance at his watch. He didn’t want to know how much time he had left with her.

He’d called her insatiable. But she’d made him insatiable.

Her eyes glowed when she looked at him. “The half pounder with extra pickles.”

He’d take it any way she wanted it. “Absolutely.”

She called in their order, then grinned at him. “They said fifteen minutes.” She waggled her eyebrows. “What can we do in fifteen minutes?”

He loved the way she thought. “I could make you come again.”

“Let’s see if you can,” she challenged, her eyes glittering.

He met the challenge twice over, and in less than fifteen minutes.

When their meal arrived, Saskia ducked beneath the covers, and he pulled on a robe from the bathroom. The waiter laid the tray on the desk as Clay fished in his pants for the tip.

After the young man left, Clay carried the tray to the bed, setting it between them as Saskia sat cross-legged, the sheet draped over her. Dipping a French fry in ketchup, she popped it in her mouth, moaning as she chewed.

Holy hell. The sounds this woman made.

Instead of cutting the burger in half, she took a bite, then handed it to him. It was so damned intimate, sharing bites, handing the burger back and forth, feeding each other French fries. Until the plate was empty.

She flopped back on the bed. “I needed that so bad.”

He needed the taste of her, the feel of her. It was still dark. Maybe not even past midnight. They had all night.

With the plate scraped clean, he carried the tray back to the desk.

“I’m going to use the bathroom.” Jumping from the bed, she closed the door. He heard water running. Not the sink but the tub. He waited. Then she opened the door, steam billowing out, her body wrapped in a towel.

“They have the biggest tub in here.” She crooked her finger. “Let’s take a bath.”

He’d do anything she wanted. The water was almost too hot, but she sank into it as if it were the sweetest luxury she’d ever known. She squeezed shampoo from the minuscule bottle, and bubbles rose in the water.

Climbing in, he slid down behind her, pulling her flush against his chest.

She stretched. “I do so love a bubble bath after a long, hard day.”

“I love a bubble bath after good, hot sex.” Not that he’d ever indulged.

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